


Sweet As Roses

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Illustrations, Lust Potion/Spell, M/M, Sex Pollen, massively fucky consent issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:20:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 133,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25674982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: “Come in, Martin,” he says, not looking up from his notes.“Hi, Jon,” he says, and Jon stops writing at the sound of his voice. “We’re out of the green tea, but we’ve got lemon?”Jon looks at him. Martin smiles at him in his usual tentative way as he sets the mug of tea down on Jon’s desk. Heat spikes so sharply in his gut that he twitches with it.“Thank you, Martin,” he says, mouth dry, and he stands up.“Oh,” he says, sounding almost surprised. He smiles again. “No-- no problem-- um, what are you--”Jon takes Martin by the shoulders, leans up on the tips of his toes, and kisses him.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 670
Kudos: 1145





	1. watch the thorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he does so, he pricks himself on his pointer finger. He hisses, dropping it onto the floor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration was done by [tsundernova!](https://tsundernova.tumblr.com/) Check their stuff out!

Jon stares in stunned disbelief at the woman in front of him. 

She flushes. “I-- It did happen, it really did.” 

“I’m sure it did,” he makes himself say, pacifying. Clearly, he doesn’t do a good enough job of sounding convincing, because she hastily opens her large purse, and pulls something out and shoves it into his face like it’s a warrant. Jon blinks, and leans back. 

It’s… a red rose wrapped in a handkerchief. 

“Ah,” he says. “I suppose that this is the rose from the Statement.” 

Belatedly, he remembers to turn the recorder off. 

“It _is,”_ she says urgently. “I don’t know what-- what came over me, but it only started after he gave me this rose. I’ve had it for two months now, and it still isn’t wilting! I’ve tried burning it, cutting it, running it over with my car-- I haven’t even been able to pull a single petal off with _pliers.”_

“Right,” he says, uncomfortable. She’s very intense, wide eyed. _Needing_ for him to believe her. She needs to be able to believe this as well, he supposes. 

He feels something inside of his chest soften with pity. She just… made a mistake, is all, and is trying to deal with that. He wishes she wasn’t trying to deal with it by going on about her torrid affair with the neighbour to him and his recorder in highly vivid detail, insisting that she was being _mind controlled_ or some such, but, well. She does look very upset. 

“I’m sure that if you only apologize to your husband and talk to him honestly that the two of you can--” 

She throws the rose down on his desk in frustration. “No! That’s not the _truth._ I didn’t want to do that, or I didn’t _want_ to want--” 

“Mrs. Ennulat, please calm down--” 

She puts her face in her hands and _screams,_ muffled and frustrated. He stammers to a halt. She takes a deep breath, looks up at him. Her face is flat. 

“Right,” she says. “Fine. Whatever. Don’t know what I expected.” 

And with that, she gets up and stalks out of his office without another word. She slams the door behind her as she goes. 

Well. That had been… unpleasant, to say the least. The institute _does_ get odd people in now and then, which is why they so often do written Statements, he supposes. But she had insisted on talking to a person. Presumably because what she’d been looking for had been less of an Archivist and more of a bizarre confessional. 

He reaches out to pop the tape out of the recorder. He’s more tempted to put it in the bin than the discredited pile, considering how… _graphic_ it had gotten. Surely it can’t be professional to keep something like that around in a workplace. That’s when he notices that she left the rose behind. It has fallen out of its handkerchief, presumably when she threw it down in frustration. 

Sighing, Jon picks it up. It looks new and fresh, the petals a strong vibrant red. But he isn’t a flower person, and he’d rather like to get rid of any glaring reminders of this whole interaction. 

As he does so, he pricks himself on his pointer finger. He hisses, dropping it onto the floor. 

“Damn it,” he mutters. He’s bleeding. Not much, but it stings. Thoughtlessly, he puts his pricked finger in his mouth, and. 

He sucks. 

It feels nice. It feels nice to do that. It would feel so nice to do that to someone else…

There’s a knock at the door. He blinks, stops sucking on his finger. Oh, he feels a bit… that was strange, like getting hit by a dizzy spell while sitting down. He looks up. It’s Tim, already opening the door and leaning in, eyebrow lifted. 

“Everything alright, boss?” he asks. 

“Yes, I’m fine. Just, ah, one of _those_ Statement givers, you know.” 

“I saw her. She looked _steaming._ You’ve really got a way with them, eh? You absolute charmer.” He grins at him, teasing. 

Jon rolls his eyes at him. “Don’t you have any work to be doing?” 

“Just making sure that she didn’t stab you or anything, you’re welcome. Martin’s following her out.” 

And with that, he closes the door. Jon tries to put the whole incident out of mind, and gets back to doing some actual work. 

It’s a few hours later that there’s another knock at the door. He recognizes the rhythm of it. It’s time for tea, apparently. 

“Come in, Martin,” he says, not looking up from his notes. 

“Hi, Jon,” he says, and Jon stops writing at the sound of his voice. “We’re out of the green tea, but we’ve got lemon?” 

Jon looks at him. Martin smiles at him in his usual tentative way as he sets the mug of tea down on Jon’s desk. Heat spikes so sharply in his gut that he twitches with it. 

“Thank you, Martin,” he says, mouth dry, and he stands up. 

“Oh,” he says, sounding almost surprised. He smiles again. “No-- no problem-- um, what are you--” 

Jon takes Martin by the shoulders, leans up on the tips of his toes, and kisses him. Martin makes a shocked, muffled noise, and Jon takes the opportunity to make the kiss deeper, slipping his tongue into his mouth. Fuck, he tastes so _good._ He moans into the kiss, and slides his hand down to Martin’s crotch and squeezes. It’s a _sizable_ handful, and excitement thrums through his veins. That’s going to feel _amazing_ inside of him. He ends the kiss, but only so he can sink to his knees and get his mouth on that--

Martin grabs Jon by the arms before he can finish going to his knees, and pushes him abruptly away. A protesting noise slips out of Jon as he loses his hold on Martin’s concealed cock. Martin breathes sharply, his eyes wide and staring down at Jon. 

_“What?”_ he asks, sounding completely bewildered. 

“What?” Jon parrots him, feeling petulant and spurned. His eyes flick down to Martin’s crotch. God, it’s clear even through his trousers that he’s starting to get hard. He looks so _big._ His mouth waters. 

“What are you _doing?”_ Martin asks, voice going high pitched. 

“Well, I was _trying_ to suck your cock,” he says, and Martin chokes. “If you’ll just let go of me, I can take care of that for you.” 

“W-- _why?”_

“Why?” he asks, feeling deeply confused. Why what? 

“Why do you want-- why are you trying to suck-- suck me off?” 

Martin is behaving _so strangely._

“Why wouldn’t I want to suck you off?” he asks. “Your cock must be huge, I can already tell. It’ll taste perfect in my mouth.” 

Martin coughs, wheezes. He lets go of Jon in the process, which lets Jon get close to him again. It’s easy to press up against him, to take in the warmth of him, to put his mouth to Martin’s throat and lick and suck and nip at the skin there, his hand going back down Martin’s wonderful dick--

Martin pushes him away again. His face is bright red, his eyes still very wide. 

“Something,” he says, sounding strangled, “is wrong here.” 

“You’re still wearing clothes?” 

“No! No, there’s-- there’s definitely something wrong with you. You’d _never--_ especially with _me--”_

Jon tries to wriggle his way out of Martin’s grip, but it’s tight and firm. His breath shudders out of him at the feel of it. His hands are so broad. 

“Your grip is very strong,” he marvels. “Do you think I’ll bruise? Lord, you could probably hold me down like it’s nothing--” 

Martin squeaks, and desperately presses one hand down over Jon’s mouth. Jon’s eyes fall shut and he moans a little, just to hear the way that Martin’s hand muffles the noise. 

“Okay,” Martin says, his voice high and shaky with barely restrained hysteria. Jon opens his eyes to watch him. His face is so red. He wonders how far that flush travels down his body. He wants to find out. “Okay, okay, okay. This is-- this is _not_ normal, you’re not acting like yourself. You don’t-- you don’t seem drunk or, or _high,_ I guess. You wouldn’t do that at work either, or ever, I think. Unless someone slipped something into your drink? No, _I_ bring you your drinks…” 

Martin’s eyes flit around the office as if desperately searching for something, or just trying to avoid lingering on Jon, who’s gone back to trying to squirm out of his hold. Belatedly, he thinks to lick at Martin’s palm and-- god that tastes good, warm slightly salty skin, _Martin’s_ skin. Intoxicating. He wants to lick every single inch of him. 

Martin yelps and withdraws his hand, pressing it protectively to his own chest. 

“I want to lick every single inch of you,” Jon says, because Martin should know this very urgent and relevant information. If possible, Martin goes even redder. And then something seems to occur to him. 

“Wait,” he says. “Wait. You had a, a Statement giver here today, didn’t you? That angry woman?” 

“Yes, so?” he asks, distracted and a bit annoyed that Martin is insisting on talking about unimportant things instead of putting his mouth somewhere more useful. 

“Did she,” he says, and Jon is _entranced_ by the way he licks his lips, “did she leave something behind? A, a book? A Leitner?” 

“No,” Jon says, and tries to pry Martin’s fingers off of his shoulder. Martin’s grip just goes harder, and Jon shivers at the ache of it. “No book.” 

“Are you sure?” he asks desperately. “A Leitner can be any sort of book, really. Did you read anything she gave you?” 

“I always check for nameplates,” he says dismissively. “Martin, could you just bend me over my desk and fuck me already?” 

Martin blinks rapidly, and clears his throat repeatedly. “There’s-- Jon, you’re not thinking clearly. You don’t even have any lube in here. Or-- I’d be _really_ surprised if you do, at least.” 

“Just use your spit,” Jon coaxes him. 

“Jon, that’d _hurt_ you!” 

“I don’t care. I _need_ for you to fuck me, please--” 

“That’s not going to happen because there’s something wrong with you. That’s the only possible explanation, you have to be cursed somehow. Jon, please, she didn’t give you _anything?”_

Jon waves a hand back in the direction of his bin in frustration. “Nothing more than a _flower_ that I tossed away in the trash. Martin, if you don’t want to penetrate me without lubricant, then the obvious solution is to just let me suck your cock. Why are you--?” 

“Right,” Martin interrupts. “Right, okay, that’s something. Tim! Sasha! Please help!” 

Jon almost _whines._ Almost. 

Why is Martin being so _difficult_ about this? 

Sasha notes the way that Martin is careful to keep a desk between himself and Jon, and the way Jon won’t look away from Martin for even a moment, even when she or Tim ask him a question. 

“--and, so, that’s what’s going on. It, it _has_ to be something spooky,” he finished, looking absolutely mortified at what he’s told them, but with an expression of stubborn determination fixed to his features. 

“And you think it’s related to the rose the Statement giver left behind?” Sasha asks, bending over a bit to look down into Jon’s bin, that has now been relocated out of his office so that they can all curiously peer down at the red rose perched on top of crumpled balls of paper and used sticky notes. When Tim had reached down to pluck it out, Martin had yelped and slapped his hand away, which was wise. In Sasha’s experience, the less physical contact with a supernatural artefact, the better. 

A rose that makes you intensely want to fuck is a first, though. Bit bizarre, really. 

“For god’s sake, it’s just a _flower,”_ Jon gripes, sounding deeply frustrated. It’s almost comfortingly familiar, until he continues, “Martin I just want to have sex with you _right now,_ nothing else _matters.”_

Tim chokes, and Martin shoots them both a desperate, plaintive look. 

“See?” he says, sounding very strained. “Do you see what he’s like?” 

“Yeah, we see it, Martin,” she says soothingly. As unbelievable as Martin’s story is, the evidence is right in front of them. She could never imagine Jon willingly saying something like _that_ in front of the three of them. There’s definitely something messing with his head. 

Jon looks down at Sasha’s desk, and she realizes that he’s seriously considering climbing over it to get to Martin. She steps neatly in front of him, and he makes an annoyed noise. 

“Martin, how about you leave the room for a bit? Take an early lunch?” she suggests. Figuring this out will probably go more smoothly without the distraction of actively keeping Jon from jumping Martin in the middle of their workspace. 

“Excuse me?” Jon asks. He tries to get around her, and she takes another step to the side so she’s still blocking him. It makes her feel pretty silly, like she’s bullying a classmate or something. 

“That’s-- yeah, okay, that’s smart. I’ll, um, I’ll be back in half an hour?” 

“Or longer!” Tim says. “Up to you, buddy.” 

“Right, yeah, okay. I’ll, I’ll see you guys later--” 

_“Martin,”_ Jon says in a very un-Jon like tone. Not angry or frustrated, but genuinely upset. It almost makes her more uncomfortable than anything else Jon has said so far. 

“I’m sorry! Bye!” Martin rushes out of the Archives, the door falling shut behind him. 

“Damn it,” Jon says, and tries to get around Sasha again. Tim reaches out and grabs his arm. 

“Woah, cool it, boss. How about you just stay here for a bit?” 

“No! Let go of me!” 

Tim shoots Sasha a helpless look. She knows Jon and Tim have been good friends for a while, to the point of blurring the line between work friend and real friend a bit, even. It must be even weirder for him to see Jon like this. 

“Jon,” she says, trying to make eye contact with him. “You didn’t want to sleep with Martin at all this morning, and now you don’t want anything else. Don’t you think that something strange is going on here?” 

“Yes,” he agrees. “Why is Martin trying to avoid it? I want to touch him, I know he wants to touch me, he _has_ to, so why--”

Tim and Sasha exchange another look. She knows the same thing must’ve occurred to the both of them. They’ve joked about it often enough, when it’s just the two of them. Martin has a crush on Jon that can be approximately seen from space by everyone _but_ Jon, who seems to be selectively blind to it. Tim’s even prodded him a bit about it, only to come back with reports that yeah, Jon definitely doesn’t know. He’s not just being tactful, which was a theory that Sasha always doubted anyways. Jon and tact are a bit like oil and water. It just doesn’t seem to come to him naturally. 

“How do you know that Martin wants to touch you?” Tim asks leadingly, like he can talk and coax Jon back into common sense. 

“I just _do,”_ he says, which is utter nonsense, but he says it with an unfortunate amount of conviction. 

“How long have you known it for?” she asks curiously. 

“I--” Jon stops, and seems to actually try and think it over. “Since… since today? I, I just realized, when I saw him.” 

“You didn’t _know_ that you wanted Martin, or that Martin wanted you this morning, before you touched the rose,” she checks. Jon nods hesitantly, brow furrowed. “But then you touched the rose, you saw him, and boom, you… realized that you both want each other.” 

“I’m sure that’s not related,” he says. “I just happened to realize it today.” 

It’s like trying to have a genuine conversation with her conservative uncle, the way Jon keeps just _not seeing_ the glaringly obvious signs right in front of him. He can be stubborn sometimes, but this-- no, this is irrational past all point of reason. It has to be the rose, messing with his head in yet another way. Stopping him from noticing just how affected he is. 

“So, it’s an… obsession curse that spreads through contact with the rose, which latches onto the first person the victim seems after they’ve been affected,” she hypothesizes. It sounds nice and neat to her. Simple, logical. As much as the supernatural ever is, anyways. 

“But I was the first person who Jon saw, after his Statement with the woman with the rose,” Tim points out. “I went to check on him, remember?” 

“Maybe Jon hadn’t touched the rose yet when you saw him?” she says, trying to keep her theory together. 

“Uh, I’m not sure,” Tim says, brow furrowing in concentration as he tries to remember. “Jon, had you touched the rose yet by the time I saw you?” 

“Why does this _matter?_ ” he asks, exasperated. “What are you two even talking about? Don’t you have work to be doing?” 

“Jon, please,” she says. “Can you just tell us if you remember whether or not you’d touched the rose by the time Tim visited you? It’s important.” 

“I don’t see why--”

 _“Please,_ Jon.” 

Jon sighs, and then seems to actually take a moment to think it over. “Yes,” he says eventually. “I touched it before Tim came inside. I nicked myself on one of the damn thorns.” 

He shows his finger to them in demonstration, and when Sasha leans in, there is indeed a small cut there. 

“Huh,” Tim says, seeing the same thing. 

“That could be relevant,” she agrees. 

The spooky artefact has tasted Jon’s _blood._

Martin spends about an hour picking over a sandwich at a nearby deli. It’s overpriced, and while it tastes nice, his stomachs tying itself in knots. He’s too anxious to really eat it, running over what happened earlier over and over again in his head. Jon, pressing searing kisses into his mouth and throat, pushing him against him so needily, desperate for him. The _things_ he’d said. 

It’s more than he ever could have even hoped for, and it’s all _wrong._ It’s wrong, Jon’s wrong, he shouldn’t be like that. Something has happened to him, and for some reason it’s making him want _Martin._ He has no idea how to even wrap his head around it, how to digest this hard lump of flustered arousal and panicky confused guilt. 

He really shouldn’t be letting himself get aroused over Jon probably being cursed. No, definitely. _Definitely_ cursed. 

_I_ need _for you to fuck me,_ he remembers Jon saying, his exact intonation branded into his mind, presumably for the rest of his life. It makes something swoop in his stomach all over again, something hot and giddy. Combined with the guilt, it leaves him feeling nauseous. 

Jon would never ever ever _ever_ say that to him, not in a _million_ years. The fact that he is isn’t an improbable dream come true. It just-- it just _feels_ like it, which is kind of grating and distressing. God, he really hopes that Jon comes back to his senses soon, before Martin combusts from either sheer lust or shame. Whichever takes him down first. 

… Is Jon going to fire him out of pure embarrassment once he does? Christ, he hopes not. It wouldn’t be _fair._ Although, he can’t really bring himself to blame hypothetical future Jon for it either. Martin certainly wouldn’t be able to look someone in the eye ever again, if he came onto them that strongly. It would _haunt_ him. 

And that’s not even taking into account the fact that Jon doesn’t even actually like him. That’s going to make it much worse, isn’t it. 

The deli owner clears their throat loudly, and Martin flinches, coming back to the present moment a bit more. Embarrassed, he gathers up his things, wrapping up his half eaten sandwich in its wrapper before tossing it in its bin and hurriedly leaving, head ducked down. It’s been about an hour now, that’s as long as he can dither about in a deli, wasting time. Tim and Sasha must’ve come up with something by now, right? They’re smart people. 

Maybe it’s even worn off on its own, he thinks to himself with hopeful optimism. Maybe he’ll walk back into the Archives and Jon will make a pointed comment about Martin taking too long of a lunch break, and everything will be fine and normal. 

It is with this tentative hope that he goes back to the Institute. He opens the door, and Tim and Sasha’s heads immediately swivel around to look at him. He freezes for a moment, feeling a bit like the one student who overslept, sheepishly shuffling his way into class halfway through a lecture while everyone stares at him. 

He shakes his head at himself, takes a deep breath. 

“Um, is he-- is he better?” he asks, looking at Jon’s closed office door. 

“I… guess so?” Tim says, very uncertainly. 

“You _guess?”_ he asks. He’d really appreciate a straight answer here. “What does that mean?” 

“He seems more normal. I checked in with him earlier, and he’s just sat at his desk, reading the follow up work I did on that Statement with the burned house. We talked, and he didn’t, like, go on about how much he wants to jump on your dick, so. That’s good, right? Just regular, kinda grumpy, stressed Jon.” 

“On the other hand,” Sasha cuts in while Martin’s still dealing with the emotional fallout of listening to Tim say ‘he wants to jump on your dick’ and also the blooming hope that hey, maybe this really is already over, “we asked him about… how he acted around you earlier today, once it seemed like he’d calmed down and forgotten about chasing after you. He didn’t really start acting weird again once it was brought up, beyond the fact that he clearly did remember it, but he didn’t see anything wrong with it. He seemed confused that we were even bringing it up.” 

“Oh,” he says. “... What does that mean, exactly?” 

Tim and Sasha trade a look between them, and then shrug in unison at him. 

“We don’t know,” Tim says. “We’re as new to this weirdness as you are, buddy.” 

“Maybe the artefact has a protective mechanism so that even after its effects have run their course, the victim won’t really register what happened as something strange? So they don’t try to destroy it,” Sasha muses. 

“Problem with that is that in that case, that lady wouldn’t have thought to come in to make a Statement,” Tim points out. 

Sasha pouts at him. “Maybe she isn’t the one who was affected by the artefact? We get plenty of Statements from loved ones or bystanders who weren’t directly involved with the spooky stuff.” 

“I don’t know, I haven’t really gotten a chance to listen to her Statement yet. We were too busy, uh, talking about Jon, basically.” 

“Guys,” Martin says. 

“Sorry,” Tim says. 

“Just theorizing!” Sasha says. “But an easy way to see if this is over yet is to just go and see Jon real quick. See how he reacts.” 

“See how he-- right,” he says. He takes a moment to breathe, to try and bring his voice back under control. “And what if he reacts like-- like earlier?” 

Tim and Sasha look at each other, then back at him. “We’ll deal with it,” Sasha says simply. 

“We’ve got your back, Marto,” Tim says more reassuringly. 

“Okay,” he says. Takes a deep breath, sets his shoulders. Right. They’re right, the only way to be sure that it’s over is to go and see Jon. He’s going to have to rip that band-aid off eventually, so he might as well get it over with now. 

… God, but what if-- what if the _veil_ or whatever falls from Jon’s eyes as soon as he sees Martin, and he realizes how strange this day has been? Martin doesn’t want to watch the disbelieving disgust dawn over his face. Guiltily, he hopes the situation stays exactly as it is right now: Jon back to normal, but not really _aware_ of what happened. The best of both worlds. Not really fair to Jon, but he wouldn’t want to fully realize what had happened, right? 

He could keep spiraling in those anxious circles for hours. He makes himself walk across the broad open office space that he shares with Tim and Sasha, and knocks on Jon’s door. He can hear Tim and Sasha’s chairs creak as they presumably lean in to better hear what happens next. He tries to ignore it. 

“Come in,” he hears, and it’s a tangible relief to hear Jon sound so like himself. Distracted, a touch annoyed at being interrupted and not even trying to hide it. He never thought he’d miss it so acutely. 

He opens the door and leans inside, hand still on the doorknob. 

“H-- hey, Jon, I--” 

He bites his tongue when Jon looks towards him, and his eyes immediately _light up._ It reminds Martin keenly of a cat that’s just spotted something that it very much wants to pounce on. 

“Martin,” Jon says. 

“Um,” Martin says, his voice breaking. 

Jon stands up. Martin unfreezes, taking a step back. 

“Wait--” says Jon. 

“I’ve gotta go--” says Martin. 

_“Don’t leave--”_

“Sorry!” 

He closes the door and almost runs towards his desk to start gathering his things. 

“I think I’ll just take the rest of the day off maybe,” he babbles, shoving his phone into his pocket, scrambling to put his jacket back on. 

Jon throws his door back open. 

“Maybe for the best,” Sasha agrees. Tim’s already standing up and approaching Jon to play interference. 

“Please, um, call me if he gets any better!” 

“Why are you _leaving?”_ Jon asks, sounding frustrated and bewildered and _desperate._ “Martin, I don’t understand!” 

“Sorry,” he says again, uselessly. He hurries out of the Archives without looking back behind him. He doesn’t want to see the look on Jon’s face to go with that tone of voice. “Sorry, sorry.” 

He leaves to the sound of Tim trying to placate Jon, and Jon sounding like he’s very much an inch away from biting Tim’s head off. 

It takes a while for Jon to settle back down again. He wants to argue first, and Sasha leaves Tim to it. Trying to explain to a man who _literally_ can’t understand why he needs to be stopped from ravishing his coworker sounds like an exercise in frustration. 

Instead, she goes and raids the kitchenette. She finds some dusty tongs and kitchen mitts. Thus armed, she goes ahead and finally removes the offending rose from Jon’s bin, and goes and places it in an otherwise empty filing box. She handles it carefully, like it’s radioactive. When she’s got it settled in its new abode, she lets out a deep sigh. Taking off the mitts, she goes and finds the lid, puts it down. Scrounges up some duct tape and seals it closed. Picks up a marker, writes ‘DANGER: WILL FUCK YOU UP’ in large block letters on the lid, and all four sides of the box. Finished, she looks on in satisfaction at her containment of the artefact. 

… The box is admittedly pretty flimsy. But at least no one’s going to be pricking themselves on it by accident now. The artefact seems to be passive, waiting for hapless victims to come across it and trigger its effects. Or, so she assumes. So she hopes. She’s admittedly hypothesizing from a pretty small sample size. A sample size of one. 

By all rights, she should probably be contacting Artefact Storage to take care of this. It’s literally what they’re _for._

She doesn’t want to. She decides not to analyze why, and instead moves the Box of Doom over to an empty corner of their open plan office, where it’ll be in plain view (just in case it gets up to something _nefarious)_ but also out of the way (she can picture Martin literally tripping over it far too well, which might be a bit ungenerous of her, but… better safe than sorry). 

By the time she’s done with all of that, Jon is back in his office and Tim is looking like he’s had a much more tiring day at work than he’d anticipated when he woke up this morning. 

“Drinks after work?” she offers sympathetically. She feels a bit drained herself. 

“Only if it’s in my flat,” Tim groans, rubbing his hands over his face. 

“That’s the best sort,” she agrees. 

Martin goes home. It’s the least relieved he’s ever been for a surprise half day. The tube is almost unfamiliar with how much emptier it is than when he usually takes it. He comes home to his flat, and… dithers. Normally he spends the first hour back home from work making dinner and watching something mindless to unwind, but it’s still too early for dinner, and he doesn’t think that he could zone out and watch some calming baking show if his life depended on it. 

He spends that first hour cleaning instead. It’s hard to focus on anything, but cleaning is something he’s familiar with. After his dad left and his mom started getting sicker and sicker, he started picking up more and more of the chores pretty quickly, until basically all of them were his responsibility. It’s mindless, tedious work that leaves him enough space in his head to fret. 

He mostly just retreads the same worried circles that he’d paced in during his extended lunch break. What is Jon going to think once he gets back to normal, _how_ are they going to get him back to normal, what if they _can’t_ get him back to normal, and how much of a terrible person is Martin for constantly running the memory of Jon nibbling at his throat like he was a particularly exclusive delicacy through his head exactly… 

He doesn’t know, but he really wishes he could stop. He’s been half hard for about half an hour now, and it’s a _problem._ Being painfully anxious and turned on all at once is making him feel so restless that he almost wants to tear down the wallpaper or something. 

_I could go and have a wank,_ he thinks. _Something to do, to pass the time. Could help with the anxiety. Would_ definitely _help with the arousal._

“Nope!” he says out loud to himself. If he’s already feeling guilty about not being able to stop thinking about what Jon did-- what he said, how he looked, how his hand felt on Martin’s-- 

He gives his face a bracing slap, like he sometimes does when he needs to wake up. Absolutely not. He is _not_ having a wank about this. Nope. 

Martin finished cleaning up his flat. He… dithers again. 

… Jon’s eyes had been so dark, so intense, so _fixed_ on Martin--

He gets his phone and phones Tim. _Anything_ to get his head out of the damned gutter. 

_“Hey,”_ Tim says, picking up. _“Yes, Jon is fine. He’s not upset any longer, he’s back to his spooky filing.”_

“Hi,” Martin says sheepishly. “Um, thanks. Does he seem…?” 

_“I asked him a bit ago about you, and it was basically the same thing as earlier today. He didn’t get all intense about it, but he acted like I was pointing out perfectly normal stuff when I reminded him what happened.”_

Martin groans. “So, not normal yet then.” 

_“Nope,”_ he says, popping the P. 

“Maybe he can just… sleep it off?” he asks hopefully. 

_“That’d be nice.”_

“... I think I might take a sick day tomorrow.” 

_“Yeahhh, that’s more doable than getting_ Jon _to take one. Smart.”_

“Let me know if he’s, you know, back to his senses tomorrow morning?” 

_“Will do!”_

“Thanks. Bye.” 

_“Toodles.”_

Martin closes his eyes, and does not think about Jon wanting him. 

He still doesn’t, after all. He’s just… confused. 

Tim probably would’ve slept poorly that night, if he and Sasha hadn’t drunk themselves into a stupor together. As it is, they both wake up about forty minutes too late to come into work on time on his couch, and rush through getting ready. His head pounds, but he takes some aspirin and chugs some water and toughs it out. Martin’s taking a sick day, and if he’s skiving off due to a hangover then Sasha’s going to be mad that she doesn’t get to do the same thing when she’s got just about the exact same hangover. And all three of them can’t just not come in, not when Jon’s-- 

When Jon’s _weird._

He vaguely remembers shouting about it a lot with Sasha last night after they’d gotten a couple of drinks in. Venting, validating each other that yes it was indeed fucking weird as hell listening to Jon _say_ stuff like that. Not really helpful for the situation, but it helped him feel less crazy. 

He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like Jon being changed like that, without his say so. Not at fucking all. 

This is why basically the first thing he does when he comes into the Archives is burst into Jon’s office with a forced, cheery, “Morning, boss!” 

“--viscera,” Jon is saying into his tape recorder in an awfully grave voice. Well, at least until he bites his tongue and splutters. _“Tim._ Knock first!” 

So far, so good. 

“Sorry, sorry.” 

Jon glares at him, reminding him a bit of a scandalized cat. “You’re late.” 

“Not _that_ late,” he lies blatantly. With the way Jon comes about an hour earlier than he needs to, followed by holing himself up in his office for the rest of the day until he needs to brave the outside world for supplies, the odds are in his favour that Jon honestly hasn’t noticed that Tim and Sasha kind of fucked up today. 

“Yes, well. _Do_ try and come in on time.” 

“Sir, yes, sir!” 

Jon grimaces. Tim grins at him. The longer Jon goes sounding like himself, the lighter he feels. 

“Soooo,” he says. “You feeling more normal?” 

“What are you talking about?” A confused furrow etches itself between Jon’s brows. Tim’s tentative light mood starts to sink back down. 

"You don't think you've been acting... strange, recently?" He’s starting to recognize a bit of a pattern to this particular conversation, and he doesn’t like that he’s falling back into it now. 

"Not to my knowledge. Why? Have you noticed something?" Jon casts a suspicious look down at himself, as if there’s a sudden fifth mutated limb that only he hasn’t noticed yet. 

"It's just.” It does not get any less bizarre to say this, even if this is basically the third time in two days that he’s done it. “You did try to fuck Martin yesterday?"

"Yes. And?"

Tim doesn’t know what to say in response to that. 

"Tim I'm actually a bit behind on my work, so if you have any actually out of character behavior to bring up with me--"

“Right, yeah, no,” he says. “Sorry for bothering you.” 

He goes to leave. 

“--wait.” 

Tim stops. 

“I heard Sasha come in along with you. Have you heard anything from Martin?” 

Tim looks at him carefully. The way Jon had looked at Martin yesterday had been something else. Like an oasis in a desert. He looks… normal now, though, even while talking about Martin. 

“Yeah, said he was feeling a bit under the weather,” he says. “I think he’s taking the day off.” 

Jon frowns, clearly annoyed. “That’s something that he should be telling _me,_ not you.” 

Tim shrugs. Makes himself smile. Jon sighs and waves him off. 

Sasha gives him an expectant look once he emerges from Jon’s office. Tim grimaces and shakes his head. 

“I’ll let Martin know,” she sighs. 

“Thanks,” he says gratefully. Listening to Martin sound so _morose_ is a bit of a downer. 

Jon’s office door opens back up behind him. “Oh, Tim,” Jon says, and Tim turns around. Jon’s holding his tape recorder out to him. “Transcribe the latest live Statement for me, if you have the time.” 

“Right,” he says after a brief moment of silence, and he almost snatches the recorder out of Jon’s hands like a starving seagull out to get the last chip on the ground at any cost. “I’ll be right on it, boss man.” 

Jon blinks at him, but then visibly shrugs it off, retreating back into his office. 

Tim trades wide eyed looks with Sasha, holding _the Statement that fucked Jon up_ in his hands. 

“That should be helpful,” she says. 

“Yeah, maybe,” he says, the understatement of a century. 

Martin stares in dismay at the text from Sasha. Jon had not slept it off, apparently. He flops back into his bed. 

If Jon didn’t get back to normal once Martin left him alone for a bit, and he didn’t get back to normal once he slept for a full night then… what _will_ get him back to normal? 

Whatever it is, the answer probably isn’t as easy as just ‘wait it out.’ Martin had hoped, but, well. Things aren’t looking promising. 

What if they never figure it out? What if Martin has to _quit?_ Jon acts normal when Martin isn’t around, so never seeing Jon again could be the solution. 

That idea makes him feel nauseous for multiple reasons. The Magnus Institute is the first stable, well paying job he’s ever had in his life, and the only one he’s had for over a decade now. He can’t start over again somewhere new. Or, he desperately doesn’t want to. What if the next place he tries to work at doesn’t pay as well? What if its background checks are a little more thorough than the Institute? 

He shouldn’t be tasting sour bile over the idea of never seeing Jon again, next to how serious that first problem is, but. He really doesn’t want to have to never see Jon again. 

He’ll have to, if they don’t find a proper solution though, won’t he? Being around Jon when he’s like that-- it’s not _sustainable._ And he can’t just take sick days forever. Elias is going to notice eventually. 

“We’re going to find a solution,” he tells himself in the silence of his flat, because he really doesn’t want to have a panic attack. He hates the sound of his own wheezing, and the way his face gets all blotchy afterwards. Plus, feeling like he’s dying and all that during the damned thing. He tries to make his own voice sound more confident, more convincing. “We _are.”_

Mostly, he just sounds desperate. 

Sasha goes to get the contact information for the woman who gave the Statement and left the rose-- the artefact behind yesterday, from Jon, who should have it somewhere. In the meanwhile, Tim plugs his headphones into the recorder and gets transcribing. Having the written report to refer to will be handy during their research. 

Tim listens to the Statement. He transcribes it. Or, he does for the first five minutes, and then he has to stop and listen in silent horror for the rest of the recording. By the time the recording whirs to an end, he’s feeling vaguely sick. He takes the headphones off. 

“Jesus Christ,” he swears. 

“That bad?” Sasha asks, and he flinches a bit before he turns towards her. He hadn’t noticed her coming back, but of course her chat with Jon wouldn’t have had to last for twenty whole minutes. He’s feeling… twitchy. Sasha looks concerned. “You look pale, Tim.” 

“Sorry,” he says, and can’t help but give her a humorless smile. “It’s just, uh, the horror stories here, even the proper spooky ones, they don’t tend to get so… you know, rapey.” 

Because yeah, he’s pretty fucking sure that that’s exactly what he just heard. A woman talking about how she got raped. 

Sasha blinks rapidly, clearly startled. She shakes her head. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, considering the artefacts… effects. I’m sorry, but do you think you could summarize it for me for now?” 

He does. Sasha takes notes. 

Sherry Ennulat had a neighbour. He had damp handshakes and an unnerving, too broad smile. Friendly, but the creepy sort of friendly. Too eager to hug her, to touch her, to strike up a conversation. He wouldn’t catch strong hints that she wanted for him to stop touching her, to not stand so close, to end the conversation and let her escape. He’d randomly exit his flat at the same time that she did, to the point that she was fairly sure that he kept an ear out for whenever she’d leave, so that he’d have an excuse to bump into her and chat. 

It disturbed her, how much time and attention this implied that he paid her. He always made sure not to go too far, however. Nothing she could go to the cops with and expect to be taken seriously. So, she just did her best to ignore him. 

Until one day he gave her a rose. He’d looked particularly sweaty that day, camped out by his letter box down in the lobby. Like he’d been waiting for her. As soon as she saw him, she couldn’t help but picture him just _standing_ there for hours and hours, waiting for her. He probably had. 

A large part of her had wanted to just turn around and leave. But she was waiting for an important letter, and her husband was out of town on a business trip, so she couldn’t ask him to do it for her. She would just have to… tough it out. She put up with him on a daily basis. She could do this, she told herself. 

As soon as she reluctantly went down the stairs and he spotted her, he lit up like a Christmas tree. Rushed up to her, and held the rose out to her with long, straight arms, like an awkward kindergartener. 

_I have a husband, Preston,_ she’d told him. She was usually more subtle about reminding him of that, but he was usually more subtle about his flirtations. 

He hadn’t even seemed to register what she’d said. He’d looked _intense._ Frighteningly intense. 

_Just take it,_ he’d said. _Please._

She hadn’t wanted to take it. But he’d begged her to do so so fervently that she was more than a little bit scared at the idea of what he might do if she didn’t, so. 

So, she’d taken the rose from his hands. 

Her neighbour had looked at her for a long moment, as if expecting something. She’d given him a pained smile and thanked him. He’d kept staring at her. She had awkwardly skirted around him, gone to her letter box, retrieved her mail, and retreated. She hadn’t been able to help herself from darting a quick, nervous look behind her as she left. 

He’d looked crushed. Nothing she had said or done for as long as they’d known each other had been able to convince him to leave her alone, but now he looked _devastated._ She hadn’t known what to make of it. So, she’d just gone back to her flat, locked the door, and tried to put it out of her mind. 

It was only hours later, after a skype call with her husband, after eating dinner, after working on her story, that she remembered the rose itself. The whole encounter around it had been so nerve wracking that she’d actually forgotten it. She found it discarded on her coffee table. 

On closer inspection, it was a beautiful rose. A perfect rose, really. She couldn’t find a single flaw. Each petal was a gorgeous, vivid red. It was a shame that she knew she wouldn’t be able to look at it without thinking about her creepy neighbour, or else she’d put it in a vase. 

She’d picked it up to throw it away. That was when she pricked herself on the rose’s thorns. She’d cursed, and went off for a band-aid. In her rush, she forgot about throwing the rose away. She had a meeting with her editor at the cafe a block away instead, and watched TV when she got home. Went to sleep. Woke up. Had breakfast. She’d been _normal._

Then she left her flat to go and buy groceries, and as usual, the door to her neighbours flat soon creaked open as well. She’d looked over and… 

She’d been in love. Not the way she loved her husband. It was an all consuming thing that scorched every other thought out of her head. All she’d wanted in the world was to be close to him. As close as possible. To give him everything in the world that he wanted. 

She threw her arms around him before he could even get a word out and told him that he was the only person in the world that she cared about and then she kissed him and he _beamed_ and she was struck by how beautiful his smile was, actually, and he pulled her inside into his flat and--

“And,” Tim says. “... you know.” 

“They had sex?” Sasha asks. Despite her phrasing, there’s a disgusted curl to her lips. Tim nods grimly. 

“Yeah. She, uh, goes into more detail about it on tape, but basically they… did _that_ for a while, and then when they were done she came back to herself. Was proper horrified, grabbed her clothes and left.” 

_“Really?”_ Sasha asks, and starts writing in her notebook like he’s just said something utterly fascinating. “Did she revert back to her-- her obsessive state at any point after she’d had sex with him?” 

“No,” he says. “The tape goes on for a bit after that. She went back to normal and stayed like that. She tried to destroy the rose in a lot of different ways-- used a fucking blowtorch, even. Blender too. But it’s fucking indestructable, apparently.” 

“Did she prick herself on it again?” she asks, not looking up from her notebook. 

“No, not that she said,” he says.

She nods to herself. Keeps writing. 

“This artefact is _gross,”_ he says, shooting it a disgusted look. It’s still inside of its duct taped box in the corner of the room. 

“Yeah,” Sasha agrees absent mindedly. Finally, she looks up at him. “I have a new theory.” 

“Yeah? Let’s hear it.” 

“The artefacts function is to get people to have sex with the person they _least_ want to do that with, temporarily twisting their mind to do it. As soon as the deed is done, their full faculties are returned to them.” 

Tim thinks that one over for a bit. “That’s… kind of mean towards Martin, Sash.” 

She grimaces a bit, but shrugs. “Well, it’s not exactly like Jon likes him. We both know that.” 

“Yeah, but there has to be people he wants to sleep with less than _Martin._ Like, Elias. Imagine sleeping with Elias. I can’t do it.” 

“But Jon doesn’t interact with Elias on a daily basis, does he? Maybe that’s an important factor as well.” 

“Eh… I don’t know,” he says skeptically. He doesn’t really buy it. Sasha keeps wanting for things to make _sense,_ coming up with nice and logical answers for scary, confusing puzzles. Which is cool and smart of her and all but… Martin isn’t the person that Jon wants to sleep with the least, he’s pretty sure. He doesn’t seem to want to sleep with _anyone._ He’s never gone as far as saying the word asexual, but the way he’s responded to some of Tim’s jokes over the years… that’s just the vibe he’s getting. 

He probably shouldn’t say that to Sasha, though. Privacy and all. Not everyone’s as out and proud as him. 

Or should he? It does seem to be sort of relevant to a pretty pressing situation-- 

“Well, it’s just a theory,” she says a little bit defensively. “There has to be something that decides who the victim becomes obsessed with, though. If it worked at first sight, Jon would be focused on you, and Mrs. Ennulat on her editor. Or whoever she saw when she first left her flat building. But instead they immediately fell for Martin and the neighbour. Why? What’s the criteria?” 

“The neighbour was the one who gave her the rose,” he says. 

“But Mrs. Ennulat was the one who gave Jon the rose, and he didn’t fall for her. Martin had nothing to do with that whole interaction. Rosie was the one who showed her down to the Archives, and I talked to her before taking her to Jon’s office, remember?” 

“Yeahhhh,” he says, sinking down in his chair. God, even just thinking about this whole horrible, fucked up case is exhausting him. “I was just sort of spitballing. I don’t know what the criteria is. I don’t think it’s the ‘the one they’d be most horrified to sleep with’ thing--” 

“It’s a solid theory.” 

“-- _but_ I don’t think that even matters. Is finding out the reasoning behind who gets obsessed over important? What we want to do is lift this whole curse thing.” 

“Understanding the curse could lead us to that answer. But... we already sort of have the answer, don’t we?” 

Tim squeezes his eyes shut, grits his teeth. She’s right, and that’s honestly sort of the worst part out of this whole thing. 

Mrs. Ennulat had gone back to normal after she’d slept with the person she was obsessed with. 

Tim and Sasha come over to Martin’s flat. They don’t, usually. Martin’s gotten the feeling in the past that Tim and Sasha are close, _proper_ close. Not the way they are with him. He’s a work friend. Which is fine! They go out for drinks about once a week after work, usually. Sometimes they grab lunch together. They’re nice, it’s fun to hang out with them, it’s good. It’s just that they don’t really visit each other's homes. 

Which means that Martin knows immediately that it’s because they want to talk to him about the whole-- the _Jon_ thing. Be a bit absurd to talk about anything else, really. 

God, he hopes it's good news. 

“Well, don’t you look sprightly for a horribly sick man,” Tim says. He’s smiling, but it looks a bit strained at the edges. Both he and Sasha look tired, like they’ve had a long day. 

“Sorry,” he says, even though he really _had to_ take a sick day. He’s wincing guiltily anyways. “I hope, um, it wasn’t too much extra work with me gone?” 

As if he’s such an asset in the office. He flushes a bit, hopes he doesn’t sound full of himself. Tim helps Sasha out of her coat. 

“Even less would get done with you in, mate,” Tim says. “You know, with how Jon is right now,” he clarifies after a moment. 

“Right,” he says. 

“It was just a bit much, digging into the whole rose case on top of regular work,” Sasha sighs. 

“I think you could probably let the regular work rest for a couple days,” Martin says. “None of it’s really urgent, the way the-- the rose case is.” 

“Yeah, but see _Jon_ doesn’t see it that way,” Tim says, making his way into Martin’s meager living room. He’s grateful that he’s been anxiously cleaning all day. “He physically can’t understand why we want to keep pecking at the rose case. He seems to think that it’s all just discredited garbage, even though he’s literally _cursed.”_

“So he keeps assigning us more work,” Sasha groans, collapsing onto Martin’s couch. “And more and _more.”_

Tim flops down next to her. 

Martin fidgets for a bit, before sitting down in his armchair. He’s never really needed it before, because he’s never had so many people at home that his two seater was all filled up before. He tries not to think about that. 

“How was Jon?” He’s starting to feel a bit self conscious about how often he’s been saying that lately, but it’s _relevant,_ and it’s not exactly like he can go and check for himself. “Did he-- does he seem better, after being away from me for a whole day?” 

That’s his new hope. Maybe all Jon needs is a _prolonged break_ from Martin, and then everything will be okay. 

“Asked him about you before we left,” Tim says dully. “Same status as this morning. Sorry, Martin.” 

He feels himself wilt, a bit. 

Maybe a longer break. Maybe that’ll do it. 

Sasha shifts uncomfortably. “We made some progress on the case.” 

Martin straightens, leans in. “Yeah? What did you figure out?” 

“Tim transcribed the live Statement that woman gave, and we brought it with us. You’re really involved with the whole current situation, so you obviously deserve to get to know more about how it all works.” 

Tim digs around in his satchel bag and tosses a manilla folder onto Martin’s coffee table. He twitches towards it, until Sasha goes on. 

“Basically, you can read that for the details, try and see if you can catch anything that Tim and I missed, but… we think we know how this can be ended. Get Jon back to normal.” 

“... What is it?” he asks. He sort of doesn’t want to, considering the wary look Tim and Sasha shoot each other first. He’s got a feeling that he isn’t going to like this. 

He’s right. He doesn’t. 

Sasha doesn’t think she’s ever seen Martin go this red before, which is saying something. And it’s always been out of embarrassment before, or because Jon wore a tight shirt or something. 

Not out of anger. 

“--absolutely _not!”_ he shouts. He’s been going on like that for a bit. She’s never heard him get so loud before. She sneaks Tim a wide eyed look, just to make sure that he’s also seeing this. 

Tim’s got his hands up, in a pacifying sort of gesture. “No one’s gonna make you do anything you don’t want to do, Martin.” 

“It wouldn’t matter if I-- if I _want to_ anyways! Jon’s not in his right mind, that’s not okay. I’m not going to-- I _wouldn’t--”_

Notedly, nowhere in this rant is Martin actually saying that he doesn’t want to have sex with Jon. He seems to be very passionate about not taking this opportunity while he has it, though. Despite herself, despite the fact that Martin’s refusing the obvious and, in some ways, easy solution to this whole mess, she’s… relieved. 

Maybe that’s sort of low of her, that some small part of her was expecting for him to just go for it. The sort of thing that she wouldn’t want for him to ever find out. But he _isn’t_ going for it, and a tension that she hadn’t even noticed unknots in her shoulders. She _hadn’t_ wanted for him to take the solution that she deduced, that she herself found. She hadn’t even realized it until just now. Sure, it’s… ugly, and unfortunate, but what other choice do they have, after all? It’s not like they can just leave Jon the way he is forever. If some sort of terrible cursed artefact is trying to force Jon and Martin to have sex, then so be it. Whatever it takes to get everyone back in their right minds, the influence of any dark and malicious supernatural bullshit removed. 

But Martin is loudly, angrily refusing to go along with it so… that neatly takes that ethically fucked up solution right off the table, doesn’t it? Sasha doesn’t have to stand by and let her boss, her _friend,_ go through… what Mrs. Ennulat went through. It’s difficult and inconvenient and now they have to start hunting for another way to solve the problem, as unlikely as it seems that there even is one, and she’s so, so grateful for it. 

Sasha’s opinion of Martin quietly ticks up another notch. 

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, joining in with Tim, trying to calm Martin down. “Shouldn’t have even suggested it, my bad. But that’s what the artefact is trying to drive you towards, anyways.” 

“You _shouldn’t_ have,” he says, flushed and indignant. He crosses his arms, starting to look more sulky than actively furious. Progress! “And I’m not going to let that happen. It doesn’t matter what that stupid flower tries.” 

“Totally agreed,” Tim says, pushing gently down on Martin’s shoulders until he sits back down. Despite having just been shouted at, he also looks a bit lighter, now that she pays attention to him. It’s a subtle change, around his mouth and eyes, the way he holds himself. She may not be the only one relieved to have their brilliant solution thrown out without consideration. “We are absolutely on the same page here, Marto. D’you want some tea?” 

“Yes. Fine. Thank you.” Martin seems to settle down a bit at the peace offering and the prospect of tea. It’s only as Tim’s rummaging aimlessly through Martin’s cupboards that he springs to his feet. “Wait, this is my flat, I’m the host! I’ll make the tea!” 

Sasha sinks back into Martin’s lumpy couchy and tunes the boys out as Martin fights to make his own tea, and Tim apparently fights to get in Martin’s way for the sake of his own amusement. She starts turning things over in her head, trying to get a hold of the situation, what the next step will be now that it’s not ‘pick up some condoms at the pharmacy and wish Martin luck.’ 

She thinks she’s got a vague idea of it by the time a cup of tea, prepared just the way she likes it, is set down in front of her. She gives Martin an absent minded smile, and Tim settles down beside her. Martin looks more himself now that Tim’s spent the last five minutes or so distracting him. He’s good with people. She gives him an appreciative pat on his thigh and sips at her tea. It’s as good as Martin’s tea always is: excellent. 

“So,” she says, “us looking into the Rose Case--” she feels that it deserves proper capitalization at this point, “--is going to be challenging, what with Jon getting in our way as our manager and also the confused victim. We can’t explain to him why what we’re doing is important and needs our full attention, and he’ll keep assigning us our regular amount of work. Martin has to keep taking sick days to avoid Jon while he’s affected, which means that it’s even more difficult for us to do all of the work Jon assigns us while also working on the Rose Case.” 

“Not to mention that Jon probably won’t stand for Martin taking an indefinite amount of sick days without a proper explanation. We’re gonna have to solve this fast,” Tim chimes in. 

Sasha nods in agreement. 

Martin started biting his lower lip sometime during Sasha summarizing the situation, but he lets it go now, a determined furrow in his brow. “I’m not actually sick, though. Just because I can’t go to the Institute doesn’t mean that I can’t help with the research. I can-- I can go and visit Mrs. Ennulat with some follow up questions? Do some fieldwork.” 

“I got her contact info from Jon,” Tim volunteers. 

“Good idea,” Sasha says to Martin. “Tim and I can try and see if we can find anything that sounds like the Ennulat Statement in our files, in between doing regular research for Jon.” 

“Like it’s not a complete fucking nightmare trying to find anything in those stacks,” Tim groans. His fingers fly across his phone for a moment, before Martin’s phone softly dings. “There, you’ve got her number and address now.” 

“Okay,” Martin says, and then again, “okay.” 

“We’ve got a plan,” she says, because he looks like he needs some reassurance. And what’s more reassuring than a plan of action? “We’re going to figure this out.” 

The next morning, the first thing Tim does once he gets into the Archives is to pop his head into Jon’s office and see how he’s doing, of course. He’s sort of given up on the hope that Jon will just snap back to normal on his own, but he should at least check. 

“Morning, boss-- _wow!_ You look terrible!” 

Jon glares at him from where he’s sitting at his desk. The man usually has some faint shadows underneath his eyes, but they’re downright bruises now. His brown skin looks ashen, washed out. His hair isn’t neatly combed, his outfit isn’t all straight, ironed lines. It usually takes him a whole, frustrating work day to start tugging at his hair and his tie, loosening his sleeves. It’s only morning, but he already looks like he’s worked two days straight without a break or changing his clothes. 

“Knocking, Tim,” he says with dull irritation, the sort of flat tone that Tim associates with someone so tired that they don’t have any energy left in them to snap or shout at people. That’s unusual, for Jon. Exhaustion usually just makes him sharper and more high strung. 

“Sure you should be in the office?” he asks. “You look sick as a dog.” 

“I’m fine,” he says stubbornly. “Just haven’t slept well.” 

“Right,” Tim says skeptically. Normally, this when he’d go to Martin’s desk and drop a line about how Jon’s looking a bit peaky today. Martin would take it from there with no more nudging from Tim, and he would’ve bullied Jon out of the office and back to his flat before ten. It never failed to impress him how Martin could find a backbone from seemingly nowhere when it came to taking care of people, and use it to out-stubborn _Jon._ It takes a lot of nerve to banish one's own boss from his office. 

But Martin isn’t here. Tim doesn’t really know how to proceed. He’s never successfully managed to make Jon take a sick day himself. That’s a unique, admirable talent of Martin’s. 

“Is there anything you wanted to talk about?” Jon’s voice is still too tired for that question to feel impatient or pointed, but he assumes that that spirit is there, hidden underneath his obvious exhaustion. 

“Um, yeah. Martin’s taking another sick day off today.” 

Jon rolls his eyes. 

“Do you remember what happened with him a couple days ago, by the way? Between you and him?” 

The rest of that conversation goes disappointingly predictably. 

_No change :(,_ he texts to Martin once it’s over. He decides not to mention the ‘under the weather’ thing. It’ll just make him fret even more, when he can’t do anything about it. 

“Right,” he says to Sasha, putting his phone away. “So, let’s find any mentions of this damned rose, then.” 

Easier said than done, that. 

Martin calls Mrs. Ennulat, to get himself to stop staring forlornly at Tim’s short text message. Or to go through his short text message history with Jon again. All of Jon’s texts to him are short, sparse, clipped, carefully capitalized like he’s writing a professional email, and the last text he got from him was several months ago. He can read all of them in a breezy five minutes. They’re all work related. He’s reached new heights of pathetic, scrolling through them. He just… it hurts a bit, to read Jon acting so like himself. In a way that makes him want to do it over and over again. 

He calls Mrs. Ennulat. She doesn’t answer. That’s… yeah. He’s not a known number, so that makes sense. He’d screen unknown numbers as well, if it weren’t for the fact that the few times he’s tried, he’s been overcome either by the guilt of leaving someone on the other end, or he’s had a nagging anxiety for the rest of the day that it must have something to do with his mum somehow, even though he’s already got her care home’s number logged in his contact list. 

It sort of makes his skin crawl with the prospect of being rude, but he decides to go and visit Mrs. Ennulat without calling ahead. He has her address, and it’s important. He needs to do this. 

Also, he really wants to get out of his flat. He’s starting to feel a little bit stir crazy, not to mention the fact that he would _love_ to avoid the Statement resting on his coffee table. The whole time he’d been reading it, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about himself and Jon taking over the roles of the neighbor and the victim, respectively, Jon narrating from Mrs. Ennulat’s horrified perspective. It had made him feel sick. 

It only hardened his resolve. It doesn’t matter what he has to do to find another solution, he _will_ find it. The one they have now is just… it’s not acceptable. Absolutely not. 

He calls her two more times while on the tube. Nothing. 

Well, an unannounced visit it is, then. He just hopes that he doesn’t get a door slammed in his face. 

The Ennulats live in a nice neighborhood, it turns out. Nicer than where Martin lives, at least, which admittedly isn’t all that hard to pull off. He finds the peeling label with the relevant name on it, and presses down. It buzzes loudly, and after a long moment, he hears a man’s voice, deep and crackly through the filter of shoddy technology. 

_“Who is it?”_ he asks, and Martin checks to make sure that he’d pressed the right button. He thinks so. 

“Er, Martin Blackwood? I’m an Archival Assistant for the Magnus Institute, and we have some follow up--” 

The door buzzes open. 

“--oh, thank you,” he says, relieved, and hurries through. 

He rides up the elevator, checking his text from Tim again just so he can be sure that he’s going to the right door (no change). He can’t stop himself from slowing down as he passes… the neighbour’s door. Preston. The person who gave Mrs. Ennulat the rose. The person in the same role as Martin. 

A rapist, by all rights. 

The door looks completely normal. The doorknob doesn’t twist, a pale and clammy face doesn’t peer out at him. He walks past it. He knocks on the Ennulat’s door. Heavy footsteps thud closer, and then it opens. Martin blinks, not used to meeting someone he doesn’t have to tilt his head at least a little bit downwards to make eye contact with. 

“... Mr. Ennulat?” he guesses. Mrs. Ennulat had mentioned a husband in her Statement, hadn’t she? Away on a business trip. 

“Come inside,” he says. He looks grim. 

Martin goes inside. 

“Thank you for letting me in,” he says, following Mr. Ennulat into the living room. There’s lot of boxes he has to edge past. “I’m sorry for not calling ahead, I tried but--” 

“I only let you up because I wanna make something clear,” Mr. Ennulat says, sitting down on a couch. Martin closes his mouth. “You're from that ghost place, right? Where Sherry went to tell someone what happened?” 

“Um, yes. We don’t just research ghosts, but anything supernatural in general. I’ve got some follow up questions that I would really appreciate being able to ask her. Sorry for the inconvenience.” 

“No,” he says. 

Martin blinks. “... No?” 

“No. She’s talked about it with me, and she just wants to put this behind her. She’s not here. She’s not coming back. She’s staying with her mum until I’ve got our stuff packed up and we find a new place together.” 

“Oh,” he says faintly. “That-- that makes sense.” 

“You called her? Don’t do that again.” 

He looks so foreboding that Martin’s nodding before he can even properly consider it. “S-- so you believe her, then? I mean, she told you?” 

“She did. I do. She hates that fucking creep. No way would she ever even touch him unless he did something to her first. I don’t understand it but… I believe her. We’re getting out of here. Should’ve done it years ago.” His mouth twists bitterly. 

On the one hand, this is bad. It’s a deadend where they’re desperate for leads. On the other, he’s… happy for Mrs. Ennulat, Sherry, that she gets this at least. Her husband believing her without question, the two of them moving far away from the neighbour, no matter how inconvenient for them it may be. 

He’s happy for her, but he’s here for Jon too. That’s what makes him draw one of the business cards that he picked up from Rosie’s desk once from his bag, with the Institute logo branded on it. He hands it over to Mr. Ennulat. 

“I get it, I won’t bother you again. But if she ever changes her mind about talking to us… you’ve got our number, yeah?” 

“Sure,” he says skeptically, reluctantly accepting the card in a way that doesn’t make Martin feel hopeful. “Doubt she’s gonna, though. Said the guy she talked to was real rude.” 

Martin winces. “Oh, that-- that’s too bad. I’m sorry about-- him. Whoever she talked to.” 

Mr. Ennulat grunts. “Well, thanks for not being a bastard about being stonewalled. Now get out of my flat. If I ever see you again, we’re gonna have words.” 

He nods hastily. “Of course, yup, definitely! I understand, that’s fair.” 

Mr. Ennulat stands up, and Martin follows his lead. He knows when he’s being silently told to fuck off. As he goes, he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He only takes it out of his pocket once Mr. Ennulat’s firmly closed the door behind him, standing out in the hallway. It’s a text from Tim again. 

_boss asked after you 3 times in the last hour. I know u wanted to know about any changes, dont know what it means tho._

Martin doesn’t know what it means either. He hopes it’s something good. He sends along a confirmation text, and that he went and visited the Ennulats but he didn’t really learn anything new or useful. He stows his phone away and turns to leave. Slows down as he passes the neighbour’s door again. 

Stops, this time. Looks at it. 

If he’s not getting any more information from the Mrs. Ennulat… maybe he could learn something from the other person involved in the Rose Statement? 

The idea of talking to someone like him like it’s just a regular interview with a regular person is-- it’s _gross._ Surreal. 

But he needs information. For Jon. Taking a deep breath, he knocks on the door. 

Nothing. 

He knocks on the door again. 

Still nothing. 

He glares belligerently at the closed door. He’s half tempted to try and break in, but… he’s not really a lockpick or anything cool like that. Not like Tim who can charm people into wanting to tell him stuff, or Sasha who can hack peoples accounts like passwords aren’t even a thing. He’s done a bit of… mail stealing, rummaging through trash, trespassing, while doing this job. More casual law breaking than he’d ever thought would be involved in archiving, but Jon encouraged it and well… Martin has to work hard not to let himself be completely outshined by Tim and Sasha, who’re both so good at gathering information in their own ways. It’s not like he’s committed any _serious_ crimes. He hasn’t hurt anyone. He just… checks to see if someone’s forgotten to lock a door, sometimes. It’s more often than you’d think. 

Tentatively, he tries opening the door. It rattles, closed and locked. He sighs, frustrated. So much for making any progress today. 

He goes home, giving up the day as a wash. He tries not to read the Rose Statement again, tries not to imagine what it would sound like narrated in Jon’s voice, to picture himself as the neighbour. 

He really wishes that he’d at least gotten to see the man. Just so that he’d have a face to put to him that isn’t his own, if nothing else. 

Sasha hates that particular feeling of pouring hours of hard effort into something, and getting _nothing_ out of it. She’s tried her best over the years to become competent enough that it doesn’t happen as often, but as a researcher, it’s unavoidable sometimes. She and Tim every spare moment they had yesterday poring through their files, trying to see if they could find anything about a rose. 

“You know,” she says, walking down into the Archives along with Tim, “I’m starting to suspect that people don’t want to come in here and make a Statement about the time a magical rose made them rape themselves for some reason.” 

“Baffling,” says Tim. “You could try searching forums for anything?” 

She groans. “I don’t even want to _think_ about how much porn I’m going to come across while I’m looking for something real. That’s not my kink, Tim.” 

“I know,” he says cheekily, and she lightly hits him with her purse. They’ve had sex _once,_ as if that means that he knows all of her kinks. 

That would be all of the rambling, tipsy, oversharing conversations they’ve had over the years. 

“Can you do the Jon check today? I did it last time,” Tim pleads. 

“What, is it unpleasant or something?” 

“Sort of? It’s depressing, anyways.” 

“Fine, fine. You go and get started on searching the files, I’ll get started on looking for anything online.” 

“You’re an angel.” 

“I know I am.” With that she tosses her purse onto her desk and heads over towards Jon’s office. “Jon-- oh _fuck.”_

“What?” she hears Tim call out behind her, alarmed. 

She hurries inside the office, towards Jon’s desk. Jon’s in his chair, his head and an arm on his desk. She’s caught him dozing before, but that was always when he was working overtime, not in the morning. He still has his glasses on as well, and the way he’s positioned it just-- it looks like he collapsed more than he decided to put his head down for a moment. 

She takes his pulse. Tim comes inside the office and swears when he sees Jon. 

“Shit, is he--?” 

“He’s got a pulse,” she says, and she feels her relief distantly. She still doesn’t understand what’s _wrong,_ and she doesn’t like that. 

Jon mumbles something, too slurred to be understandable, and he stirs. 

“Jon,” Tim says urgently, coming over, pulling him into an upright position in his chair. “Hey, hey, you okay? Buddy?” 

Jon blinks at them, and he looks dazed, distant. Feverish. 

“Where’s Martin?” is the first thing he asks. 

And the second. And the third. 

Sasha calls Martin. 

Martin doesn’t _mean_ to sleep in. He knows he’s not on a vacation, or actually sick. He doesn’t know how to proceed, after making zero headway at his visit to the Ennulats, but there has to be something he can do today to be productive, useful. To help Jon. 

Instead, he ends up re-reading Sherry Ennulat’s Statement until the words start to blur in front of him and the streetlights are on outside of his flat. Even after he makes himself put the pages away and go to bed and try and sleep, it feels like it takes a long, long time for it to happen. He can’t stop thinking about it. Wondering what he can do, how he can help. And other, less productive things. Things that make him sleep poorly. 

Martin doesn’t mean to sleep in, but he’s woken up with a start as his phone blares at him anyways. He fumbles for it, groggy and panicked and half convinced that he’s overslept and he’s late for work and now Jon’s going to _shout_ at him. He drops the phone and swears. It’s as he’s picking it up off the floor that he remembers-- everything. 

Tim and Sasha have only been texting him about Jon, so far. If they’re calling then something _big_ must have happened. Like Jon going back to normal! He answers the call hurriedly in a desperate, relieved rush for developments. 

_“Martin, you have to come into work_ now,” Sasha says grimly, and Martin’s stomach drops like a stone. That was not the tone of someone with good news. 

Every part of Jon’s body hurts. But most of all, more than anything else, his heart aches. It feels like it’s jammed full of broken glass. Like it’s on fire. Like it’s been squeezed, painfully and mercilessly, in a slowly closing fist. He doesn’t know how to tell anyone how much his heart hurts, how much _he_ hurts. 

It’s not important either. What’s important is that Martin isn’t here. He hasn’t _been_ here. That hadn’t seemed so alarming and urgent before, but now it suddenly seems _very_ pressing. 

“Should we take him to a hospital?” he hears Tim say, as if from some great distance. Which is strange, considering that the man is currently holding him. 

“I don’t think a hospital could fix what he’s got,” Sasha says. “This is just a theory, but the timing of this is too convenient. You said that Jon looked like he was coming down with something yesterday, didn’t you? The very first day Martin wasn’t here.” 

A faint, pained noise slips out of him. Martin isn’t here. It _hurts._ Like thorns growing around his heart. 

“And now he isn’t here for the second day in a row, and he’s just gotten worse. I think we can fix this, we just need to--” 

Jon falls out of reality, for a little bit. It’s a relief, with how much it hurts to be awake right now. If he’s awake, he knows that Martin isn’t here. He resurfaces here and there, and it hurts, it _hurts._ Sometimes he asks them if Martin’s back yet, but he’s in too much pain to even hear their answers. They’re not Martin, anyways. That’s answer enough. He catches snippets of their conversations. 

“--what if we’re wrong--”

“--can’t afford to--” 

“--says he’s almost--” 

It’s all just meaningless words. He just focuses on breathing, on his beating heart. It feels very difficult to do that, all of a sudden. Breathing. Keeping his heart beating. He doesn’t know how to do it himself, but it feels like each beat is a faltering, strained thing that he just barely manages, that-- 

“I’m here!” The door to the Archives slam open, and Jon’s eyes snap open along with them. “Where is he, what’s wrong--” 

He’d been too dizzy to stand a moment ago, but now he’s up on his feet, he’s moving, and-- 

He _finally_ has his arms around Martin. He drops his head into the crook of his neck and breathes in the scent of him like it’s the only air he can breathe. He clutches at him, his arms locked in place, the only thing keeping him upright with how weak his knees feel. 

“Martin,” he says, and nuzzles deeper towards the warmth of him. He’s shaking with sheer relief. “Martin, Martin.” 

“... I told you so,” Sasha eventually says. Jon ignores her, blissful. 

Tim has never seen Martin look this uncomfortable in his life, and he’s seen Martin be _pretty_ uncomfortable. It’s been ten minutes, and Jon’s still clinging onto him like a limpet. 

“It’s a punishment mechanism, or a failsafe, I think,” says Sasha. “It’d be too easy if the problem could be fixed by the target just avoiding the victim. If the victim is separated from the target for too long, the victim starts to… wilt, I guess. It forces the issue even more, basically, making it a matter of life or death. Or maybe the rose can only have one victim at a time, so this is a function to make sure that it doesn’t get locked into a situation where its designated victim is perfectly fine for decades?” 

“So Jon needs his daily dose of Martin or else he literally goes into withdrawal,” Tim checks. Sasha nods confidently. “Wow.” 

Martin goes from uncomfortable to miserable. He looks like a kicked dog. He has his hands tentatively around Jon, who’s at least not doing anything more risque than a very intense hug so far. He seems to be basking in Martin’s touch like a flower in the sun. He looks less weak and ashen by the minute. 

“I don’t… but I… what do I _do?”_ Martin asks plaintively. 

Jon moves for the first time since he threw himself at Martin like he was the last parachute in a crashing plane, to whisper something, most likely a suggestion of what he could do, into his ear. Martin chokes and goes red. 

“I mean… he looks better already,” Tim says. “So you don’t really have to _do_ anything with him except to be around him so he doesn’t, you know.” _Die._

Tim is trying really hard to leave behind the cold dread he’d felt in his chest as he’d held Jon and waited for Martin to get here. He’d looked… small. Very still. 

“We’ll keep looking into different solutions to the problem,” Sasha assures him. She brightens. “And hey, with you around, Jon will be too distracted to give us other work!” 

“Distracted trying to-- distracted by _me,”_ Martin says. 

“We could make sure that me or Sasha are always with you in the office,” Tim suggests. “I mean no offence, boss, but you can’t exactly overpower Martin,” he says to Jon, who doesn’t seem up to registering anything that anyone who isn’t Martin says yet. He says the next bit to Martin. “So with him outnumbered, you’ll definitely be safe from him ravishing you.” 

“Oh, _great,”_ Martin says, voice high and strangled. “That’s just-- fantastic! That sounds absolutely reasonable and sustainable!” 

“Great,” Sasha says, very clearly choosing to ignore his sarcasm. “I’m glad we’re all in agreement. So! Just keep hugging him, I guess, until he’s all… fueled up? Tim and I’ll get started on the day’s work about… two hours into the work day, ha. Woops. Tim, you take the files and I’ll go online again?” 

“I’m just going to _hug_ him? For how long? Can’t I, you know, work?” Martin asks. He flinches, squeaks. He pulls Jon back from his neck by his hair. Tim can see Jon’s tongue darting out to lick at his lips, like he’s chasing the taste of the last bite of dessert. “Don’t _do that!”_

“Why not?” Jon asks, sounding deeply frustrated and a little bit bewildered. 

“See, he’s already doing better,” Sasha says. “And Jon-wrangling is an important job, Martin. Now more than ever.” 

Tim sees Jon strain against the hold Martin has on his hair, and let out a breathy noise when he doesn’t let go. Martin makes a mortified sound and lets Jon’s hair go like it’s made of snakes. 

“Boss,” Tim tries, “not in front of me and Sasha, yeah? It’s… inappropriate?” 

Tim’s never particularly cared about propriety in his life, but _Jon_ does, doesn’t he? Okay so he’s literally cursed, but it’s worth a shot. 

“Right,” Martin hurriedly agrees with him. “No one wants that.” 

Jon… pauses. 

“... Fine,” he says reluctantly, bitterly. He let’s go of Martin to cross his arms instead, and he _pouts._ He’s still standing closer than he normally would, Tim’s pretty sure, but hey, that’s progress! Of some sort, at least. 

“Oh, I didn’t think he could be reasoned with,” Sasha says in a voice low enough that it’s probably just to herself. _“Interesting.”_

He can see her fingers twitch, practically itching for her pen and notebook. 

“Well!” Tim says, clapping his hands together. “That’s sorted, then!” 

“Martin,” Jon says, “if you come with me to my office we could fuck without Tim or Sasha having to see.” 

“That’s not the _issue,”_ Martin says in a tone of voice that makes Tim just want to bundle him up in a blanket, give him some hot cocoa, and tell him to go to bed since it’s clearly been such a long day for him. He buries his face in his hands. 

“I’m still not seeing what the actual issue _is,_ then,” Jon says, sounding just as exasperated as Martin, but more towards the ‘sulky’ part of the spectrum than the ‘ready to beg a higher power for mercy’ part. 

“Martin, in my experience, arguing with him really doesn’t lead anywhere,” Sasha advises. 

“Would it be inappropriate if I was sucking you off underneath your desk?” Jon muses. “I mean, no one would be able to see me, after all, so--” 

“You’ve got this, buddy,” he says to Martin, and hurries off towards the file room to go and hopefully make some progress, away from all of… that. He needs a _break._ He honestly doesn’t know how Martin’s going to be able to handle it, though. Poor guy had looked on the verge of a heart attack. 

Guiltily, he is very, very grateful that the rose doesn’t work on first sight after all, no matter how much simpler and easier to understand that would be. Anything to not be in Martin’s shoes right now.


	2. stop and smell the flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon doesn’t understand why Martin isn’t just taking what he wants. 

Jon doesn’t understand why Martin isn’t just taking what he wants. 

He knows that Martin wants him. He _knows_ it, down to his bones. It’s a simple fact of the universe, beyond questioning or doubt. And he’s right here within reach and… Martin refuses to take him. It doesn’t make any _sense._

It is the single most frustrating, baffling thing he has ever encountered in his life. 

“Why won’t you sleep with me?” he asks him one morning, as no amount of mulling the question over in his head has resulted in a satisfying answer. 

He’s sitting on the edge of Martin’s desk. He’d kissed him when he came into work this morning, and he’d even managed to grope his cock through his trousers for a moment-- the shape of it so perfect in his hand, like he was meant to hold it-- and then he’d been firmly pushed away. He hasn’t been able to find another opportunity like that again so far. Sasha and Tim are both sitting at their own desks, and Jon can’t touch Martin in front of other people. It’s inappropriate. No one wants that. 

Jon keenly wishes that Tim and Sasha would go and be _somewhere else_ for a while. For now, he’s sitting at Martin’s desk. Martin is slowly pecking away at something on his laptop that Jon isn’t interested enough in to even glance at his screen to look over. He’s been mostly using the morning since Martin got here trying to persuade him to follow him to the restroom, or down into the dark, dusty stacks of files where no one would probably find or see them. He’s been utterly unsuccessful so far, and he doesn’t understand _why._

He wants to, so he can figure out how to do it right. What the magic combination of words that will get Martin’s cock inside of him are. 

“It’s not right,” Martin says. He stubbornly doesn’t take his eyes away from his laptop screen, just as he’s been doing ever since he sat down and powered it up. The tips of his ears are very red, and he desperately wants to nibble on them. He clasps his hands together in his lap so he doesn’t reach out to touch them. It’s inappropriate to do that in front of other people. No one wants that. 

“Why isn’t it right?” he asks insistently. If he can just figure out what absurd logic Martin is following that’s stopping him from fucking Jon senseless, then he can point out how its completely irrational. It must be. Martin not touching Jon, not taking him-- it’s _horrible._ Unnatural. He feels that conviction to the very core of himself. 

“You don’t want to sleep with me. Not really.” 

Jon stares at him for a long moment, waiting for more. But no, that’s it, apparently. 

“I do,” he says. 

“You don’t,” says Martin, not even hesitating. 

“You’re _wrong.”_

“Martin,” Sasha groans from off to the side. “It’s a waste of time.” 

“There’s nothing in the world I want more,” he says, leaning in closer towards Martin, obstructing his view of the laptop. Martin reaches out and gently pushes him away. Jon has to stop breathing for a moment at the way just Martin’s hand on his shoulder makes him feel. God, he needs to be _touched._ He needs it so much. Why won’t Martin understand that? 

“Sorry,” Martin says, but Jon doesn’t want an apology, he wants his _cock._

“I do want you,” he says helplessly, not knowing how to make Martin see the very simple truth in front of him. He doesn’t understand how he isn’t seeing it in the first place. 

“Sorry,” he says again, and he continues not to touch Jon. 

Hell. Jon’s trapped in hell. 

Martin’s trapped in hell. _Hell._

He hasn’t been getting this little work done since his first week down in the Archives, trying to wrap his head around his new duties. It’s fucking _impossible_ to focus on anything, frankly, with Jon perched on his desk or hovering by his shoulder, continually reaching out and then drawing his hands back like he keeps catching himself trying to touch Martin, which is actually definitely what’s happening. Biting at his lower lip, worrying at it, his eyes _obviously_ traveling over Martin’s body. Whispering not quite quiet enough suggestions about what Martin should do to him. It is a very lucky thing, honestly, that Martin’s too big for Jon to drag him off somewhere private. As it is, Martin just has to make sure to never be left alone with him, and there won’t be any, well, _groping._

When he gets home that day, he feels _exhausted._ And keyed up. In an, um, particular way. He’d had to take off his jacket, fold it, and casually set it on his lap on the tube ride home. His dick _aches._

The first thing he does once he gets his flat door shut behind him is unbutton his jeans. 

“Christ,” he groans, the back of his head hitting the door as his dick finally gets some room. It’s been straining inside of his jeans for _way_ too long. God, he’s never been so conscious of his own dick, but the way Jon’s eyes had kept wandering to his crotch, like he was looking for the first possible opportunity to get at it… 

He remembers the way Jon’s hand had felt this morning, when he’d caught Martin off guard. Pressing down on his crotch, a firm, warm pressure. He hadn’t meant to be the first one in that day, he hadn’t thought about it. He’d basically had to restrain Jon for fifteen minutes until Sasha came in as well, and Jon had sulkily gone back to being proper… or as proper as he can ever seem to get in Martin’s presence nowadays, anyways. 

His own hand strokes down his stomach, towards… no, he shouldn’t. He’s already had this debate with himself, hasn’t he? 

But he’d also been fooling himself that the whole situation would be resolved by now. That he wouldn’t have to be around Jon while he was like this again. It’s so hard, having to say no to Jon over and over again. He looks so _disappointed_ every single time, like a kicked puppy. Martin feels _guilty_ for not saying yes, for not letting him suck him off or bend over for him. Which is absolutely absurd, of course. As if this all weren’t hard enough without Martin feeling bad for not taking advantage of Jon, on top of everything else. 

… He does feel kind of bad about it, though. In more ways than one. Letting him down over and over again wears down on him, definitely, but there’s also the guilt of _leaving him like this._ Martin could very easily fix him, at any moment. All it would take is a single yes. He’d just have to let Jon do what he so desperately wants to. Jon would be horrified at being left in this state, wouldn’t he? Desperate and begging for Martin’s cock. He’d never do that of his own free will. Is it really okay that Martin’s made the decision to keep him like this for a moment longer than he has to? 

Well, no, it isn’t. It’s not like he has any choice, though. That’s the whole problem. He can’t ask Jon what he wants, if he’d rather have sex with Martin than be left wanting and confused the way he is, or if he’d rather Martin continue to search for a different solution and let him continue to humiliate himself for a while longer. He’s too addled to give a proper opinion at all. So, Martin has to make a decision that Jon really should be involved in. He has to make it for him. 

… He really hopes that he chose right, what Jon would’ve wanted. That he won’t hate him for not just doing what needed to be done to get him back to his right mind as quickly as possible. He’s trying to do the right thing, he really is. It’s just so damned hard to figure out what that is, in this impossible fucking situation. The idea of fucking Jon is leaves him feeling guilty, and so does the idea of _not_ fucking him and letting him continue to be cursed. 

Hell. He’s definitely in hell. 

His hand slides down past the waistband of his pants and trousers, his own hand cupping himself. He imagines that it’s Jon’s hand, _remembers_ the feeling of Jon’s hand pressing down on his crotch, and hisses in a breath. 

Wrong. This is wrong. Definitely being creepy right now, getting off on this whole horrible situation. Jon’s head being messed with isn’t hot. 

Fuck, but it feels like he’s been hard on and off all _day,_ though. He tightens his grip around himself and another groan escapes him, this one more wanting than exhausted. He feels like he’s been edging for hours, with how desperate for relief he is. 

Fuck it. No one needs to know. He just has to get off, quick and easy, so he can _think_ again. 

He takes his hands out of his pants, only so he can stumble into his bedroom, kicking off his shoes and shrugging off his jacket as he goes. He flops into his bed and shoves his trousers and pants down his thighs, and he sighs with relief as his hard cock finally isn’t pressing up against tight, constricting fabric. He fumbles at his nightstand and finds the bottle of lube. He just needs a little bit, just to make his hand into something slick that he can easily thrust up into. 

He curls his hand around his shaft, and he thinks about Jon. 

That’s nothing new, but he’s never thought about Jon acting like _this._ It would’ve felt too unrealistic, not like him. But now, he’s seen it. He’s seen unattainable Jon practically throwing himself at him, desperate for him. It’s strange and confusing and so hot that it feels like something’s gone wrong inside of his own brain, a wire misfiring, making him freeze up and stall out. 

Jon, saying the filthiest things. He doesn’t even have to use his imagination, he can just remember it. Trying to cajole Martin into letting him kneel in between his legs, to bury his face in his lap, to swallow up his cock until he chokes on it. How _disappointed_ he’d looked when Martin had said that no, he couldn’t. 

Just… picture it going slightly differently. Picture actually saying yes. How happy Jon would be, how he’d light up, _excited_ to get to kneel on the floor and suck on Martin’s cock. Grateful for the chance, the opportunity, to swallow his come. Martin wouldn’t be letting him down, he could just let Jon do what he wants to do. 

Imagine the muffled eager, happy noises he’d make every time Martin thrust up into his willing, hungry mouth. Imagine the way he’d press up against Martin’s hand as he ran it through Jon’s hair, like a cat seeking affection. Imagine coming down his throat, and Jon swallowing down every drop of it like it actually tastes good, like it’s something he wants inside of himself. Imagine him leaning back on his ankles and looking up at Martin, his eyes dark, his mouth wet, and _thanking_ him with a wrecked voice. 

Imagine how good it would feel, and how easy it would be. 

Martin has the most blinding, guilty orgasm of his _life._

Sasha reads over the report Martin had written for her about how his visit to the Ennulats went. It’s by and large mostly disappointing, lacking in any breakthroughs or new information, but-- 

“Do you think it’s weird that the neighbour didn’t answer the door?” she asks the office. 

“Could’ve been out getting groceries, or down at the laundromat,” Martin suggests practically. Jon is pacing in front of his desking, casting the occasional frustrated glance at Martin, his arms crossed. If Sasha had to make a guess, the poor man must be trying to figure out why Martin’s giving him even less attention today than yesterday. Martin seems to be making a spirited attempt to avoid all eye contact with the man, like an ashamed dog. “Or work, even. I did come and visit during a weekday.” 

“Could be something spooky, though,” she says. 

“I could go and try again--” Martin says. 

“No offense, but I think Jon really needs his eight hours of Martin time,” Tim cuts him off, grimacing. Jon’s earlier brush with… well, it seems to have affected Tim to some degree, as far as she can tell. He’s still worried. 

She looks towards Jon, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed that they’re talking about him right in front of him again. He’s apparently very deep in thought, frowning at Martin. 

“I could go see him,” she volunteers. She really wants to meet this guy. See what’s happened to him, squeeze him for information if he’s even still alive. 

“Um,” Martin says uncomfortably. 

Tim sits up straight, eyes wide. “Uh, no, that’s okay, I can go.” 

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Mr. Stoker. Are you coddling me?” 

“It’s-- it’s not coddling if I don’t _love_ the idea of you going to interview a confirmed rapist!” 

“Relax. He doesn’t have a magic rose any longer, and _I’ve_ got a taser. I’ll be fine.” 

“I’ll go with you,” he says immediately. 

“Someone needs to stay here to chaperone Jon and Martin,” she corrects him. 

Martin makes a pained noise at her choice of words. 

_“You_ could stay here and babysit,” Tim says. 

“Wow,” she says. 

“Oh come on, you know I didn’t mean it like--”

“WOW,” she goes on. “Tim Stoker, supposed feminist--”

“What if he’s got a taser too, huh? Or a _gun?_ Or! Or he could have another spooky artefact! We don’t know, Sash! If he knew where to get the rose, he might know where to find more of that type of stuff as well.” 

“So _you’ll_ be fine going up against a guy who possibly has artefacts or guns, but I won’t? Hm. Hm! Interesting.” 

Tim buries his face in his hands, before sliding them up to tug at his hair. “That’s not what I’m _saying,_ just-- you’re… I mean, this guy gave off big ‘gross straight guy’ vibes in the Statement. At least if a _guy_ goes to see him, there’ll be less danger of--” Tim seems to falter at the idea of outright saying anything to the affect of ‘he might rape you.’ Too grim a possibility for him to bear to put into words, apparently. 

“Of something bad happening,” he belatedly finishes, a bit weakly. 

Sasha softens. Just a touch. Tim has nothing but good intentions, she knows that. She wants to go and search for answers, to find them herself. Of course there’s danger involved in that - the supernatural is inherently dangerous, as far as she’s seen. She accepts that risk, just by working here. Anyone getting in her way trying to shield her from that definitely grates, but. A rapist who may or may not have a weapon, supernatural or not, probably isn’t what Tim has mentally braced himself for. It’s not possible hauntings or Leitners, that’s for sure. 

Reluctantly, _very_ reluctantly, she relents. 

“Fine,” she concedes. “You can go and interview the magical rapist, you lucky bastard. _But_ I’ve got dibs on the next field mission. We’ll probably be dealing with a _lot_ of possible or definite rapists and various sketchy, sleazy assholes while researching this artefact. It’s not like good, wholesome people would be interested in a rose that controls people's libido. You’re going to have to accept that.” 

Tim’s brief expression of relief is pretty quickly wiped away as she continues talking. By the time she’s done, he looks a bit like he’s bitten into a lemon. That’s how she knows she’s won. 

“Fine,” he says stiffly. 

She smiles at him. “Glad we figured that one out.” 

Tim slumps in his seat in defeat, and she hums to herself, mollified that she may not have won the battle, but the war is hers. Tim just needs a bit of time to come to peace with the fact that she’s going to be taking an active part in this whole investigation. Like how you warn a kid ten minutes in advance before you take them away from the playground, so they don’t throw a tantrum when it’s time to go home. He just needs to… digest and accept things, instead of having her spring it on him out of nowhere. 

“Looks like I’ll be the one protecting your virtue today,” she says to Martin. 

Martin wrinkles his nose at her. “Do you have to phrase it--”

“I’m going into my office,” Jon says abruptly, like he’s come to a decision. 

“What?” Martin says. Jon turns on his heel and stalks towards his office. 

“But Martin’s right here,” Sasha calls out to him, like he’s forgotten. 

“Don’t interrupt me,” Jon says, and closes the door behind him.

She exchanges bewildered looks with Martin and Tim. Ever since Jon got cursed, he hasn’t willingly left Martin’s presence once. He’s always the one being walked away from, and he’s been upset about it every single time. It’s sort of sad and funny at the same time, the way Martin’s shoulders will hunch up around his ears as he walks away at the end of the day and she and Tim hold Jon back. 

She opens her mouth to say something. Jon’s office door opens back up again, Jon leaning his head out of the door. 

“Unless you change your mind about not fucking me, Martin. Then you can interrupt me at any moment,” he says, and then he closes his office door again. 

“Huh,” she says. 

“Is this… good? This is good, right?” Martin asks, looking incredibly concerned despite his words. 

“It’s definitely new and strange behaviour,” she says. 

“Maybe not good?” Tim says. “He needs to be around Martin, right? So he won’t get sick again.” 

“Well, that was after over two whole days with zero Martin,” she points out. “Maybe things won’t get so dire if he just spends a few hours each work day in his office. If he starts feeling bad and missing Martin, he’ll come back out again.” 

“Yeah, okay, but why?” Martin asks. “Why is he suddenly okay with not being as close to me as he can get away with?”

“I guess we could… ask him?” Tim says uncertainly. 

“If I go into his office right now,” Martin says, “he’s definitely going to think that it’s because I’m taking him up on his offer.” 

“It’s… probably nothing,” she says. “It can wait. Anyways, Tim, if you don’t go and interview the neighbour right now I’m going to go and do it myself.” 

“I’m going!” 

Doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result is the definition of insanity. Or so people say, anyways. It’s definitely not productive, at least. 

Jon wants Martin, and Martin wants Jon. There should be nothing standing in their way when it comes to satisfying their wants, but apparently, Martin has decided to be difficult about things for no good reason that Jon can see. Nothing he’s done or said over the last few days has succeeded in changing his mind. But he _needs_ to be with Martin, to touch him, taste him. So, he needs to figure out a different angle on this whole thing, a new approach. 

What do people do when someone they want to have sex with… well, Martin _is_ showing interest, Jon has been able to tell that much from the few times he’s been able to get a handful of Martin’s cock through his trousers. But what do people do when the person they want to have sex with just isn’t agreeing for some reason? 

They flirt, obviously. They find a way to be appealing, alluring. Seductive. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have any experience with any of that. Jon has never had this problem in his life. Rather the opposite, really. This is very much an exception. But how hard can it be? Everyone else does it, don’t they? If Tim can figure it out, then so can Jon. It can’t be too complicated. 

He just needs to do some research. 

Jon retreats to his office to do so. 

It really shouldn’t be bothering Martin that Jon is avoiding him now. That should be a relief, right? Constantly having Jon’s searing attention on him has been _nerve wracking._ Getting a break is nice, right? 

Somehow, it just makes him deeply, deeply nervous. He has no idea what Jon might be up to behind that office door, and that… that’s oddly terrifying, honestly. In the last week, Jon has turned from an intimidating boss slash crush to an unpredictable force of nature. He told Martin that he wanted for him to pick him up and fuck him up against a wall this morning. He’s capable of _anything._

“Do you think he’s okay?” he asks Sasha again. 

“He’s been in there less than an hour, and we haven’t heard the thump of a falling body, so I’m willing to bet he’s still fine,” she says. She scowls at her computer. “No, I’m not looking for a fucking love spell,” she mutters at it. 

Martin tries to turn his focus back to his work, picking at the task here and there. It’s hard to take it seriously, considering that doing any work that isn’t related to the rose feels like it should wait. But if Sasha can’t find something online, then that means _he_ definitely won’t be finding it, and Tim’s currently following up on the only lead they have left. For now, there’s nothing he can do to help. Except be here in the office, so Jon doesn’t… suffer the consequences of his absence. 

God, that’s messed up. He doesn’t want to think about it. It’s impossible to think about anything _but_ this whole situation, though. 

He wishes he weren’t sitting at the desk where’d fantasized about Jon blowing him. 

Oh _goddamnit,_ he was trying to avoid thinking about that. He was trying really, really hard. He grits his teeth and tries to think non-sexy, non-guilty thoughts, and just focuses on his work that feels completely pointless. 

He really misses when he could just let his mind slide into the gutter for a bit without having to feel like a bastard for it. 

“I’m back!” Tim says what feels like an eternity later, but is probably just another hour or so. 

“Oh, thank god,” he says. 

“What did you find out?” Sasha asks eagerly. “How was he, was he _weird,_ in what way--” 

“I found out that his door is locked and he’s still not answering it.” Tim plops into his seat. “Complete waste of time.” 

Sasha throws a pen from her desk at him. “You’re useless!” 

He holds his hands up, shielding himself, exaggeratedly cringing like he’s being stoned. “Excuse me for not bringing my _lockpicking kit!”_

“Do you really have one of those?” Martin asks. 

“I-- no, it was just a joke. It’s way easier to just convince someone to let you in. Or break a window, if it’s an emergency. I wasn’t sure if I should bring the landlord into this, though, and the fire escape looked wonky as hell.” 

“All I can picture is his rotting corpse lying on the bathroom floor,” Sasha says. “The shower running cold, his blood smeared on the corner of the sink and congealing in a tacky puddle around his head.” 

“Jesus,” Martin says. 

“What the fuck?” Tim asks. 

“Or something like that,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “My point is that our evidence could disappear at any minute. What if he skips town? What if he burns any proof he might have to cover his tracks? What if he _is_ dead and the landlord finds his corpse first and then our access to his flat is completely fucked?” 

“Are you saying that if I _do_ find his dead body in the bathroom I should just… ignore him, rifle through his stuff and then leave?” 

“I mean, you definitely shouldn’t call the cops. That would look bad for you, breaking into a dead man’s flat.” 

“You’re horrible. A menace.” 

“Well, _I_ could go and break into the flat if you’re so squeamish.” She smiles at him sweetly. 

“Um,” Martin interrupts. “We could just try visiting him _after_ work hours. You know, when it’s more likely that he might be home.” 

“Dibs!” Tim says. “You said that interviewing the creepy neighbour could be my thing, you can’t take it back. I’ll try again after work.” 

“Fine,” she says, along with a dramatic sigh. 

“Can’t believe I’m fighting for the opportunity to talk to a rapist during my free time,” Tim mutters. 

“You’re the only one forcing yourself to do this,” Sasha says mercilessly. 

“His name’s Preston,” Martin says. “Wasn’t sure that you knew that, from how you keep calling him… which is absolutely fair! Just thought that you should, um, know that. For when you interview him. Might make him more amenable to answering any questions.” 

“Yeah, Tim,” Sasha says. “Drink a few pints with him. Have a bro’s night. Bitch about chicks together.” 

“I hate you,” he says. 

“Yes. Perfect. Hold onto that woman hating energy, he’ll eat it up.” 

He sticks his tongue out at her. 

“Oh, by the way, if you don’t manage to get into his flat today? I’m absolutely taking it back, I’ll take care of it _myself.”_

Tim’s expression hardens into something less performatively grumpy, more serious. 

“I’ll get into his flat,” he says, and it sounds like a promise and a threat. Not towards Sasha, necessarily. Martin briefly entertains the thought of feeling sorry for the neighbour, and then dismisses it. Yeah, no, that guy’s got whatever might happen to him coming. 

“Oh, good,” Sasha says, and turns back to her laptop. 

Jon underestimated how… _disorganized_ information on this topic would be. He’s always just assumed that flirting was just an instinct that he lacks, but apparently it's a _skill,_ and even people who regularly have sex (or at least very much want to be doing that) can’t seem to agree on how it’s done. He keeps finding advice that utterly contradicts what he’s just read, and various people who seem _very_ confident viciously arguing with each other over who’s right in the comments section. 

It’s a bit of a headache, honestly. He reads it as well as he can, writing down anything that seems vaguely reasonable or that the majority of the readers seem to agree with. If something is advised multiple times from multiple sources, he puts an asterisk next to it, to keep track of what’s more likely to be real. 

He ends up falling down that unexpectedly deep rabbit hole for longer than he thought he would, and by the time he thinks to look at the clock, it’s been _hours._

Hours, since he saw Martin. Christ, he could even be getting ready to leave for the day right now. That kicks off a little spark of panic in his chest, for some reason. The idea of Martin leaving after spending _so little_ time with him. 

He abandons his research in a hurry, throwing his door open. 

Martin and Sasha’s heads rise up like in tandem, giving him wide eyed looks. 

“Oh,” Jon says, relieved. “You’re still here.” 

“Er, yes,” Martin says. “Are you feeling okay, Jon?” 

“Yes, yes, just fine,” he says. 

“Tim left early so he could interview someone related to a Statement,” Martin says. 

“Right. Of course,” Jon says. 

“You don’t need to make excuses for him, Martin,” says Sasha. “I’m pretty sure I could be naked right now and he wouldn’t even notice. _You’re_ in the room, after all.” 

Martin flushes pink. Jon _loves_ the way he does that. He’s so good at it. 

“Ah, personal space, Jon,” says Martin, raising a hand. Jon stops. He hadn’t realized that he was stepping closer to Martin, really. It makes sense, though. Like a moth to a flame. 

Martin’s personal space bubble seems unnecessarily large. Jon can’t even smell his shampoo from this distance. 

He opens his mouth to tell him this. Closes it. Trying the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result. Just mindlessly sharing whatever goes through his head is apparently not enough, no matter how relevant it feels. He needs to be… _coy_ about it. Or something. 

Seductive. If he wants Martin, he has to be seductive. 

A little bit frantically, he tries to remember _any_ of the advice that he’s spent the last few hours intently researching. There was so much of it, and almost all of it contradicted something else, or was confusingly phrased, or seems deeply vapid even to him, a self admitted novice of flirtation. 

There’s an increasingly concerned looking furrow appearing between Martin’s brows, the longer he takes to find his words. That’s not good. That’s not the reaction Jon’s after. 

With the relief of a drowning man getting a hold on a life preserver, he remembers at last one tidbit, a pithy little line from some magazine article or other: _If your man isn’t keeping his eyes on you, consider showing a little skin to get his attention back!_

His eyes narrow with determination. Slowly, he raises his hand, sets it down on the knot of his tie. He watches carefully for any reaction from Martin as he starts to loosen it. 

“Um,” he says. “What are you doing?” 

“Oh my _god,”_ Sasha says in tones of delighted horror. Jon briefly casts a glance back at her, but she’s looking at her computer screen. He turns his focus back on Martin as he starts to slide his tie loose. Doing it slowly makes it more sensual, right? He’s pretty sure that’s correct. 

Martin certainly can’t seem to rip his gaze away from what Jon’s hands are doing, so that’s promising. 

“Martin, I just hacked into Jon’s computer. Guess what he’s been doing for the last few hours.” 

“I-- I don’t,” is all Martin seems to be able to manage. Jon drops his tie on Martin’s desk. 

“He’s been researching seduction tips for a solid _four hours now.”_

Jon starts unbuttoning his shirt. It’s a bit hard to do while keeping his eyes on Martin, but he thinks that that part is key. He’s not just unbuttoning his shirt because he feels like it. This is _for him._

Martin springs out of his seat and darts towards him. He has about a fraction of a second to be shocked and pleased that it worked so well, so quickly, but all he does is grab Jon’s hands, stopping him after two buttons. 

_“Don’t take your clothes off at work,”_ he says, high pitched and rushed. “That’s-- that’s inappropriate!” 

“I wasn’t going to take _all_ of them off,” he says. He’s not _unreasonable._ He may be new to this, but he isn’t lacking in common sense. “I was just… showing cleavage?” 

Martin makes a noise like someone’s gut punched him. 

Sasha _cackles._

“You don’t have _cleavage,”_ he says thinly, plaintively. 

“Wow, rude!” Sasha says. “That’s definitely not something you’re supposed to say to someone who’s interested in you, Martin.” 

“The male equivalent,” he says dismissively. “I thought you might like to look?” 

“You definitely don’t have pecs either,” Sasha says. “Not enough for cleavage, anyways. _Tim’s_ got cleavage, and it’s stunning. But I think he _does_ like the view despite that.” 

Martin tears his gaze, which had sunk back down to the now open collar of Jon’s shirt again, away to glare at Sasha. He’s redder now. It’s… _interesting._

“He _really_ doesn’t need encouragement,” he says, sounding strained. 

“Do you like it?” he asks, hungry for a confirmation. Any feedback at all for what works would be very useful. 

Martin is still holding Jon’s hands still. It’s inconvenient, because there are so many things Jon could be doing with his hands when Martin’s within reach of them, but also being touched by Martin in any way, being _restrained_ by him, feels very, very, very good. His skin _tingles_ where he’s being touched. 

“That’s _not_ the point,” he says. “Please just-- put your tie back on. Please.” 

“You could use it to tie my wrists together,” slips out of him eagerly, even though he’s supposed to be trying an angle that isn’t just immediately sharing every little thought that pops up into his head. 

Martin makes a pained noise, and lets go of Jon’s hands, retreating. Jon frowns. 

“It’s--- it’s late enough, I’m going home now.” 

As usual, it’s too soon. It’s always too soon for Martin to leave, if he hasn’t fucked him first. Even then, he shouldn’t leave. He should just stay lying on top of him, pressing him down with his solid weight, his breath on the back of his neck, his cock going soft inside of Jon but not pulling out anyways, nestled in warm and wonderful where it’s supposed to be, where it fits perfectly. 

“Don’t go,” he says. 

“Sorry,” Martin says, avoiding eye contact as he hurriedly gathers his things. 

As usual, Jon can’t seem to think of a single thing to convince Martin to actually stay. It _hurts._

Martin’s so much larger than him that Jon can’t stop him from doing whatever he wants (which is a thought that usually makes him squirm with want), so he can’t stop him from leaving. He reaches out towards him like he can, anyways. 

Sasha’s arms close in around him from behind, pinning his arms down. He hadn’t even noticed her approaching. 

“Let go,” he hisses at her, straining. Her arms stay firmly locked around him. She has all of the leverage. 

“Sure, in five minutes,” she says. “Could you hurry up, Martin?” 

As usual, Martin leaves. 

SASHA: Any luck with the bad touch neighbour? 

TIM: y

SASHA: Good job!!

SASHA: So what did you find out? 

SASHA: Tim?

TIM: talk about it at work tomorrow. tired

SASHA: Tease :( 

Jon makes a purchase. 

Martin texts both Tim and Sasha before he enters the Magnus Institute, just to make sure that he isn’t the first of them in this morning. He’s only going to make that mistake once, thanks. Tim doesn’t respond, but Sasha’s waiting, apparently. With that assurance, he gratefully enters the building, the cold nipping at his heels. He won’t be grateful for all that long, he knows. It’s going to be a long day at the office today. All of them have been, ever since Jon got cursed. Nothing makes time slow to a crawl better than torturous flirtations that he has to turn down, he’s discovered. 

When he enters, Sasha’s practically bouncing in her seat with restrained excitement. 

“Did you see Tim on your way in?” she asks him hungrily. 

“Uh, no,” he says. 

“Damn it. He got some good info from the neighbour, apparently, but he wanted to _talk_ about it at _work_ after he got to _sleep.”_

“Did he come home late?” he asks, settling in at his desk. He casts a nervous look at the door to Jon’s office, but it doesn’t open. He must not have heard him come in. 

“I guess so. Which means that it either took him a long time to get the neighbour to open up, or the neighbour had a _lot_ to say. I’m personally hoping for that last one.” 

“Fingers crossed,” he says. “Have you seen Jon? How is he?” 

“Same old,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Or, the same old he is when you’re not around, anyways. He’s practically normal so long as I don’t bring you up.” 

He tries to ignore the guilty pang in his chest at that. He didn’t _ask_ for Jon to be cursed like this. He doesn’t want it. 

Except for how he does kind of want it. Ugh. 

He settles into work, doing his best to focus on a woman who was literally swallowed up by the earth (and then spat up again), instead of his own problems. He’s never really been good at that, not worrying, but he tries his best. He only has to do it for half an hour until Tim arrives, anyways. 

_“Finally,”_ Sasha says. 

“Good morning to you too,” he says dryly. His smile looks a bit tired at the edges, Martin thinks, like he didn’t get quite enough sleep. 

“Morning,” he says. 

“So, what did you find out? Anything new? Was he dead like I guessed?” 

Tim sits down at his own desk. Sasha rolls herself in her office chair over to his desk, so Martin takes her cue, standing up and going over to him. No point in acting like they’re not all eager to hear what Tim has to say. 

Once he gets close enough, he finally notices something. Tim’s knuckles are raw and a little bit bloody, like he’s punched a wall or something. 

Or something. Martin thinks he’s beginning to get a better picture of how Tim’s interview went last night. Oh, wow. 

Tim opens his mouth to start, and that’s when Jon’s office door opens. Sasha outright groans with frustration. 

Jon’s face lights up once his eyes fall on Martin, just like it always does nowadays. It used to be the opposite. It makes something fluttery happen in his stomach each time it happens, shortly followed by a sour taste in his mouth once he remembers the actual cause. 

“Woah,” Tim says. “New look, boss?” 

That’s when Martin notices that Jon’s tie is still missing, and the top three buttons on his shirt are undone. He’s normally so prim and buttoned up that it’s basically immediately noticeable. 

“Oh god,” he says weakly. So that’s going to be a daily thing now, apparently. 

“Martin,” Jon says happily, ignoring Tim. 

“Right,” Tim says. 

“Morning, Jon,” Martin makes himself say. No need to be rude, just because he’s… brainwashed right now, or whatever. 

Jon slips back into his office. All three of them look at the closed door for a moment. 

“That was… easier than usual--” Sasha begins, and then the door opens back up. “Ah, never mind. Here we go.” 

“Excuse me,” Jon says, and darts past them. 

“Where are you going?” Martin asks, twisting to look as Jon walks right by him, not even _trying_ to sneak a kiss or cop a feel as he passes him. 

“Restroom,” Jon says, the door closing behind him. 

“What’s up with him?” Tim asks. 

“I mean, he really might just have to go to the restroom,” Sasha says doubtfully. 

“Maybe he read that playing hard to get is successful?” Martin suggests hopefully. 

“Oh, that’d be convenient. Anyways, Tim, dish. Also, did you beat the shit out of the neighbour yesterday?” Sasha picks up one of Tim’s hands, holding up his raw knuckles like damning evidence. 

Tim doesn’t take his hand back, letting Sasha hold it. He sighs. “Okay, so. I’m pretty sure that the neighbour was there the first time I came to visit him, and probably when Martin knocked on his door too. He didn’t answer the second time I came there either, after all. I kind of had to… bust the door down.” 

Sasha lets out a short bark of laughter at that. 

“D’you think you’re going to get in trouble?” Martin asks. 

“Probably not? I mean, I don’t think he wants the attention of any cops. I don’t think you can get a supernatural date rape artefact in a legal, non suspicious way.” 

Martin darts a glance towards said artefact. It’s still in its box, in its corner. He’s relieved and unnerved in equal measure. Losing track of it would pretty much be a nightmare scenario, he thinks, but it doesn’t feel safe to just have it in the office either. It’s like a dangerous animal. You don’t want for it to run free, wreaking who knows what havoc, but knowing that it’s close to you… it doesn’t feel good. 

“So, why wasn’t he answering his door? What happened?” Sasha asks. She’s still holding onto Tim’s hand, but in a way that feels like she probably just forgot about it. 

“Guy was trying to crawl out of the window when I found him, practically pissing himself when I dragged him back in. He was babbling a lot, but I eventually got it out of him that he thought I was one of Mr. Ennulat’s buddies or something. He’s been holed up inside of his flat the last few weeks, terrified that Mrs. Ennulat’s husband was going to kill him.” 

“Oh,” Martin says. He remembers how _big_ Mr. Ennulat had been. How angry, the curl of distaste to his mouth whenever he mentioned the neighbour. Yeah, that makes sense. 

“Oh,” Sasha says, in very different tones from Martin. “That’s… _boring.”_

Tim lets out a dry laugh at that. “Not the supernatural explanation you were hoping for, huh?” 

“Well, it doesn’t tell us anything _new,_ anyways. Did you find out anything else?” 

“Yeah. I decided to just play along with what he assumed, since he was so terrified of me. I managed to get a _lot_ out of him, using that.” 

Which had apparently entailed roughing him up a bit, Martin doesn’t say. 

Tim had been the one who’d listened to Mrs. Ennulat’s tape, the one who’d transcribed it. Just reading it on paper is sickening enough, he doesn’t want to think of what that must have been like for Tim. He had some… venting to do, apparently. 

Tim goes on, sharing just what exactly he learned from the neighbour. He’d bought the rose from a stranger, who’d explained that it could make the person he loved love him back. He’d been desperate enough to part with a stupid amount of money on that promise alone. He hadn’t asked the stranger for their name. But he told Tim what the stranger looked like, and where he’d met the stranger. In some seedy pub, which somehow feels like a cliche. 

“I wouldn’t say that what Jon’s going through right now is _love,”_ Sasha says skeptically. “And it doesn’t seem like he knew that she had to prick herself on one of the thorns for it to work either. I feel like the person who sold the rose to him definitely dressed some things up, and left some other things out.” 

“But this is good, right?” Martin says. “We’ve got a-- a _trail_ now. If we can find the seller, maybe they know more about how the rose works, exactly. And if they don’t, we can ask them who and where they got the rose from, and ask the next person.” 

“And if we can find more people who used and were affected by the rose, we can increase our sample size,” Sasha muses. “We could narrow down what exactly the damned criteria is.” 

Make the person he loved love you back, Tim had said. Martin has to believe that that isn’t the criteria. Because yeah, what Jon is going through right now definitely isn’t love, even if it’s… fawning and adoring, in a way. But also, the neighbour hadn’t loved Mrs. Ennulat. He was infatuated with her, sure, but not in love. That can’t be love. That can’t be what Martin feels for Jon. He’s not saying he’s in love with Jon (except he is, a bit, stupidly), but he doesn’t want to have anything in common with that man. The neighbour had wanted what happened, after he gave the woman the rose. He’d enjoyed it, he’d _taken_ it. Martin won’t. It’s different. 

Tim’s looking at him, he realizes. 

“You good?” Tim asks. 

“Yeah,” he says, and he knows immediately that it was too bright, overcompensating. Damn it. “I was just thinking about the criteria,” he says, covering himself. That’s the best way to lie after all. To tell a partial truth. “The seller definitely wasn’t telling the truth about that. I mean, they implied that if the neighbour gave the rose to the person he loves that they’d return his feelings, which means that the rose’s criteria activates according to what the person who gives the rose away wants. But Mrs. Ennulat is the one who gave Jon the rose, and I’m pretty sure he’s forgotten her name by now.” 

Sasha makes an interested noise. “That’s an interesting theory, actually. She seemed properly mad at Jon by the time she left, didn’t she? He didn’t believe her, probably. Even if she didn’t mean to… if she gave him the rose, and wanted for him to believe her, to get some kind of comeuppance for doubting her… well, that’s happening right now, isn’t it?” 

Martin grimaces. Oh, he really doesn’t like that theory. That it was just some stupid, avoidable accident. Makes it feel worse somehow. 

“Why is Martin specifically the person he’s interested in, then?” Tim asks. “If all she wanted was for him to go through what she did then it wouldn’t have mattered who he fell for. Meaning it probably would’ve defaulted to the first person he saw… which is me.” 

Unless wanting for Jon to go through what she went through included the target of obsession being someone who had an unrequited crush on him. Martin swallows thickly. Yeah, he _really_ hates this theory. 

His feelings for Jon _aren’t like that._ It’s just a stupid, impossible, unattainable crush. Something that it’s fun to daydream about. Something that’s a bit inconvenient sometimes, when Jon’s making him feel particularly flustered or embarrassed. Not something he’d _do_ something about. Not in this… pathetic, slimy, controlling way. 

He’s not like the neighbour. He’s not. 

“I’ll add it to the list anyways,” Sasha says, going to her desk, rifling around for one of her notebooks. “I swear to god this mystery is driving me crazy, I just want to _know._ But we’ve got a lead now! Good job, Tim.” 

“At your service,” Tim says. He doesn’t look quite as drained as he did earlier, now. Maybe sharing what he learned last night, or just getting to talk to them, had helped. 

Tim’s not a violent person, Martin thinks. Not normally. This whole situation’s been affecting him too, even if he’s just at the sidelines, not tangled up in the curse the way he and Jon are. He doesn’t know if getting to punch the person partially responsible made him feel better or worse, but… well, it’s done now. 

“Thanks, Tim,” he says. Tim grins at him. 

“I’m going to the seedy pub, by the way,” Sasha says, scribbling in her notebook. 

Tim grimaces. _“Sash.”_

“You promised!” 

“The pub probably won’t be open during normal work hours,” Martin suggests, deciding to be nice to Tim. And practical. “There’s no reason you both can’t go together.” 

Tim points at Martin enthusiastically. “Yes! What he said!” 

“Oh, fine,” she says. “So long as I get to do some fieldwork too. Tim, when you say _seedy,_ what exactly do you think he meant?” 

“He mentioned the bar top being sticky.” 

“Gross.” 

“Have fun drinking,” Martin says. “On a Thursday night, hunting for an artefact salesman in a sticky pub.” 

“You’re just jealous,” Tim says. 

Jon’s never done this before. It feels _strange,_ as he gets out of the restroom and walks back towards the Archives. He makes sure to wash his hands thoroughly before he goes. There’s no reason to be unhygienic. 

Martin’s sitting at his own desk once he comes back, which is good. Tim and Sasha have an annoying habit of chiming in when Jon’s _trying_ to convince Martin to go somewhere else with him. All of the desks are still within easy hearing range of each other but… maybe if he speaks quietly? 

“Oh, Jon,” Martin says. “You took a long time.” 

“Yes,” Jon agrees. 

Martin flushes. “I didn’t mean--” 

Jon takes the small bottle out of his trouser pocket and sets it down on Martin’s desk. Martin stares at it. 

“What is that?” Sasha asks, leaning over in her chair, trying to get a better look at the label. 

“None of your business,” he tells her. “Focus on your work, please.” He turns back to Martin. He’s most likely read the label himself by now, judging by the way his eyes are steadily going wider and rounder, his face turning red. “You said that you couldn’t rail me over my desk since I didn’t have any lube in my office, but now I do. I bought it yesterday. Problem solved.” 

“Holy _shit,”_ Tim says. 

“Why,” Martin says. “Why is it _open?”_

Jon looks at it. “The cap is on.” 

“I mean-- some of the lube is _gone,_ it’s _used.”_

“That’s because I used it,” he says. “In the restroom just now. I’m prepared. In hindsight I should’ve practiced yesterday at home, it was a bit more challenging than I’d anticipated, but--” 

Martin sort of… curls up like a pill bug in his chair, like a full body cringe, his forehead hitting his desk, his hands going into his hair. He _whimpers._

“... Is that a good reaction?” he asks. “I can’t tell. It should be. You could just pull my pants and trousers down right now and enter me without any trouble--” 

“Please,” he interrupts him. _“Please_ stop talking.” 

“... You could _make_ me--” 

“Okay!” Tim says getting abruptly out of his seat. “I think you’ve done a good job flustering Martin for the day, boss, you can ease off now.” 

“I’m not trying to meet some sort of quota, I’m _trying_ to make him just _fuck me_ already.” 

Tim ignores him, taking him by the shoulders and steering him towards his office. Jon glares at him. 

“Your interference is _highly_ unprofessional,” he grumbles. 

Tim laughs, sounding almost hysterical for a moment. _“I’m_ unprofessional. Okay! Sure! Please don’t finger yourself at work again, Jon.” 

Martin makes a pained noise behind them. Jon tries to turn around to get a better look at his face, but Tim pushes him into his office. 

“I did it in the restroom,” he protests. “It’s not unprofessional if it’s not in front of others.” 

“You,” Tim says, pointing a finger in his face, “are impossible to talk to right now.” 

_“I’m_ impossible--” he starts, offended. 

“I’m closing the door! You’re staying in there for at least an hour! Martin needs a break!”

“You can’t just make decisions like that! I’m the boss here, Tim.” 

“Too bad, so sad. Let me know if you need any… wet wipes, I guess.” 

“Why would I need wet wipes?” 

“Oh, buddy. That’s gonna start feeling pretty uncomfortable after a while, trust me.” 

He shifts, reminded all over again of the… slick feeling where he isn’t used to there being one. 

“Will it?” he asks uncertainly. 

“Bye, Jon.” 

Martin is finally home. Now that he is, he’s back to really desperately trying not to think about Jon fingering himself in the work restroom. Legs spread as much as they can with his trousers shoved down to his knees, one arm braced on the wall for balance as he twists his wrist to reach up into himself, making small bitten off noises as his fingers move, curling and rubbing. Fitting more and more fingers into himself, lube glistening on his inner thighs, trying to be patient as he works himself loose and open and slick for Martin’s dick, so he can effortlessly slide inside of him whenever he feels like it. 

Imagine if he just did that every day. Prepared himself once he noticed that Martin had arrived, just on the eager, hopeful chance that Martin might decide to bend him over and fuck him hard and breathless. 

He’s probably going to do that exact thing from now on, actually. 

Martin’s doing a really bad job of not thinking about it. 

The inside of his head feels hot and itchy, restless and directionless, all trains of thoughts eventually turning back to that image of Jon’s breath stuttering as he touches himself and thinks about Martin’s cock filling him up-- 

Martin should _not_ touch himself to that. He’d thought the same thing about not jerking off to the idea of Jon being grateful and happy if Martin ever says yes, and he’d done it anyways. He means it this time, though. He’d meant it the last time as well, but… he means it _more_ this time? God, he’d felt like such a _creep_ once he was done. Hadn’t even been able to look Jon in the eye the next day. He doesn’t want to feel like that again, does he? Have some self control. 

Fuck, but it feels like every work day is just having his libido mercilessly teased for hours and hours on end. 

Impulsively, he grabs his phone. Calls Sasha. 

_“Hey,”_ she says, answering after a couple of rings. 

“Hi,” he says. He can hear noise on the other end of the line, other people talking. She’s still at the seedy pub. “Sorry. I can-- I can hang up if I’m interrupting. I just wanted to know how it’s going? Any progress?” 

_“Not really,”_ she sighs. _“We asked the bartender about the seller, using the description the neighbour gave us, but he’s tight lipped. I think he might think we’re cops or something.”_

“Oh. That’s too bad.” 

_“The rest of the customers think we’re prostitutes, though. At least three people have tried to buy a blowjob from me or Tim since we got here. One person wanted both of us!”_

He lets out a disbelieving little laugh. “Uh, wow!” 

She laughs as well, so it can’t be too bad. _“Yeah, I guess we’re just too fucking hot for this place. We’re going to stick it out a bit longer though, just in case.”_

“Good luck,” he says, and he means it. 

_“Thanks! Oh by the way, remind me tomorrow that I want to talk to you about something.”_

“Okay? You, um, you could just talk about it now.” He’d appreciate the distraction, honestly. 

_“Nah, it’s a Jon thing. People would look at me weird if they overhear any of the details. I’m sure it sounds absolutely_ absurd _out of context.”_

“Oh, yeah, sure, good call. See you tomorrow? Tell Tim I said hey.” 

_“See you!”_

She hangs up on him. He looks at the phone until the screen goes dim, then dark. Half heartedly considers trying to read a book or something. 

He thinks about Jon fingering himself in the work restroom instead. 

“This isn’t even a fun bar,” Tim complains. 

Instead of throbbing EDM blaring through speakers there’s the sound of an alternative rock station playing on a radio kept behind the bar. Instead of dancing, there’s a pool table tucked away in the corner that’s been monopolized by the same three guys all night. Instead of actually good drinks, there’s the choice between watered down beer or vodka so strong it tastes like a cleaning solution. 

At least the company’s good, though. 

“How many nights do you think we should waste here in the hopes that the seller comes back?” Sasha asks. She’d stopped by at her flat on the way here to dress herself up, so she was less ‘preppy office femme’ as she dubbed the look, and more ‘sexy clubbing.’ Tim had done the same thing. Unfortunately, this was apparently a bad move, and they’re now completely overdressed and sticking out like sore thumbs in their current environment. In Tim’s defense, he’s never gone drinking to a place this shitty in his life. He swears to god he saw actual cockroaches while he was in the restroom. 

“How invested are you in cracking the case?” he asks her. 

“Extremely,” she says immediately. 

“Yeah,” he says, along with a bit of a grimace. The idea of coming back here again, of _repeatedly_ coming back here, is not fun at all. If alcoholism was a contagious disease, he would’ve caught it two hours ago just from entering this place. But if he thinks about the actual stakes of the situation, there’s no other reasonable choice. 

The longer this whole mess goes on, the more time there is for Jon to do and say stuff that Tim knows that he’s going to deeply, deeply regret. If they’d fixed this on day one, Tim could see himself cracking a few jokes about it in about a week to try and lighten the mood. By now, he doesn’t even know any longer how Jon’s going to react once he’s himself again. The whole lube thing had _seriously_ topped the cake. Did it count as self sexual harassment? He has no idea. 

Sasha looks consideringly down at her glass. She’d opted for the watered down piss beer, he for the overly powerful vodka. Leaning over the table, she switches their glasses in plain sight before taking a deep drink of the vodka. 

“Smart,” he says. “Balance it out so there is no sober or shitfaced friend, we’re just both reasonably pissed.” 

_“Fuck,”_ Sasha says as she puts the glass of vodka back down. “I’m not giving this back.” 

“What did Martin want to talk about?” 

“Just checking in-- _shit,”_ she hisses. Her hand shoots out to grab his. _“Don’t_ look behind you.” 

Reflexively, he looks behind himself. 

A woman exactly matching the description the neighbour had given them of the seller is entering through the door. She immediately notices him and Sasha gawking at her, and freezes. 

“We’re… unicorn hunters!” he tries desperately. “Hey, are you single--?” 

She whips around and lets the door shut behind her. 

“Dumbass!” Sasha shouts, tearing out of her seat. “Get her!” 

Tim runs. No one really tries to stop them, which is good, because he would’ve probably had to tackle them and leave the chase up to Sasha then, and she’s already lagging behind because she’s running barefoot, her heels in her hands. 

Fuck, he wishes most of his muscles weren’t just for show. He sprints, chasing the sound of footsteps, of the woman rounding corners. They’re in a part of London that has various shops and bars and take out places tucked away into ridiculous places that don’t seem like they could possibly survive so far away from the bustling main streets, glowing neon signs at eye level pointing downwards towards winding stairs underneath the earth. 

“We just! Want! To talk!” he calls out as best he can. 

She doesn’t slow down. 

With a frustrated, inarticulate noise, Tim finds a way to push himself faster. 

She’s still pulling away. Fast fucker, _shit,_ why did he have to turn around--

Something large and dark flies through the air right next to his head. The woman screams, falls, and a round trash can lid clatters onto the ground. Tim falters for a moment, and then keeps going, throwing himself with reckless velocity onto her before she can get back up. 

Oh, that’s going to bruise. 

He looks behind himself. Sasha, sweaty and grinning and brilliant, jogs up to him. 

“No more shitty vodka!” she cheers, and he falls a little bit more in love. 

Martin ends up being the first of the assistants to come to work, so he lingers outside for a while, fiddling with his phone. Sasha and Tim are running a bit behind again today, since they had to stay out so late to catch the seller. She had turned out to be a regular at the bar, luckily. Initial reports (sloppy, kind of tipsy looking text messages sent at two AM) indicate that they managed to get some good info out of it, apparently. It feels good to be making progress. 

Even if Martin didn’t really contribute to making it at all. 

Tim and Sasha eventually round the corner, and he smiles, waving at them. They wave back, approaching. 

“Just so you know, Tim’s wearing concealer to hide his baggy eyes. He looked terrible this morning,” Sasha tells him. 

“She’s just jealous because we woke up at my place and I didn’t have any in her skin tone,” Tim says. 

“It’s honestly pretty inconsiderate of you to _not_ have concealer in my color at your place,” she says. “Do you even like me?” 

“Also she stepped on some broken glass last night, so she’s trying to tear me down to make herself look better.” 

_“I’m_ the one who caught the seller. Me. The hero.” 

“Good morning,” he says, grinning a bit. If one thing can cheer him up, it’s listening to Tim and Sasha bicker. They always seem to get on so well. “Is your foot alright, Sasha?” 

“Not a big deal,” she says dismissively. “Sitting down would be great though, so let's go.” 

They all arrive in the Archives in one group, calling out greetings to Rosie as they pass her. As soon as the door falls shut behind them, separating them from the rest of the Institute, questions start bubbling up inside of him 

“What did you find out from the seller?” he asks them eagerly. 

“She--” 

Jon’s office door opens. Sasha cuts herself off. 

“You’re late,” Jon says. It doesn’t quite sound the way he would sometimes say it, before… before. It sounds a bit more… sulky, now? Like he’s not scolding them because he feels like that’s what he’s supposed to do, like that’s what’s proper, but more because he’s upset that he had to wait so long for Martin to come in. 

“Long night, boss,” Tim says. “We’ve been doing some after hours work lately.” 

“Yes, fine,” Jon says distractedly. Nothing anyone says seems to really matter to him when Martin’s around, if they’re not Martin himself or getting in the way of him getting to Martin. It makes it easier to work on the rose case, Martin supposes. Small mercies? 

Tim grimaces a little, and no, Martin just feels bad about it, actually. He’s not trying to get in between Jon and Tim’s friendship, or Jon and Sasha’s, he’s just-- he didn’t ask for any part of this. 

That doesn’t seem to matter, though. 

“Morning, Jon,” Martin says. Jon smiles at him brightly, and stops lingering in the doorway of his office, entering the wider floorspace that the assistants work in. Alright, so it won’t be one of those weird days where Jon will retreat to his office to… plot something, or whatever. He waits a little bit nervously to see if Jon’s going to head for the restroom instead (Jon, his own fingers inside of himself, coaxing himself loose and open so Martin can slowly work the entirety of his cock into him despite how _small_ he is, so determined to take all of it), wondering if he should stop him if he does, but he stops once he reaches Martin. He’s standing a bit too close for comfort, but he’s pointedly winding his fingers together in front of him, not reaching out towards Martin’s belt line or something. He just _looks_ at Martin, like he’s the best thing he’s ever seen, like a delicious meal just out of his reach. 

His tie is still missing, his collar unbuttoned. Flushing, he realizes where his gaze has sunk again, and pulls it back up to Jon’s face. Jon’s lips dart out to wet his lips, eyes dark and fixed hungrily on Martin. 

He makes himself look away from Jon. 

“... Okay,” Sasha says. “Looks like he’s behaving for now. So, what we found out from the seller.” 

Tim and Sasha had managed to persuade the seller to give up… pretty much everything she knew about the rose. It hadn’t taken a lot, apparently. She’d seemed to think that Tim and Sasha were willing to go far further to get the information out of her than they actually had been. 

To summarize: she honestly hadn’t been keeping that much information away from the neighbour. Sure, she’d known that ‘lust’ was probably more accurate than love, but she wasn’t entirely clear on the details. It’s not like she’d experimented with using it herself. She knew that the rose’s effects would vanish pretty quickly, although she didn’t seem to know why or how exactly that was either, so she needed to keep her name far away from the whole thing when it inevitably blew up. It always ended badly, she said. Of course it did. What other reaction was there to being supernaturally compelled to have sex with someone but complete horror? 

But most importantly of all, she’d given up a name, address, and description of the person she’d gotten the rose from in the first place. 

“Which is fantastic,” Sasha says enthusiastically. “Supernatural artefacts don’t come with user manuals. Not the real ones, anyways. Which means that we probably won’t be finding one single person who has all of the answers, but that doesn’t matter any longer. We’ve got a _trail_ now. If we can keep following it, and find more and more cases to compare and contrast with, we’ll get a clear picture of how it works. _We_ can write the user manual.” 

“And if a single person has found a way to break the curse that isn’t sex, then we’ll be golden,” Tim says. 

“Yes! Exactly! So, do you want to play rock paper scissors for who gets to go to the address?” 

“What, right now?” Martin asks. 

“Why not? It’s field work, we do it all of the time.” 

“Well, if we do wait until after work hours, more than one of us can go at a time since Martin won’t be tied up with gracing Jon with his amazing presence, and one of us won’t be tied up with making sure Jon doesn’t go fully feral while hopped up on Martin’s amazing presence.” 

Martin darts a look towards Jon. He’s looking intently, thoughtfully at Martin, completely ignoring Tim and Sasha talking about him right in front of him. A twinge of guilt that is growing increasingly familiar goes off in his chest. He looks away again. 

“Time is of the essence,” Sasha argues. “While we’ve found a temporary solution to Jon wilting like a Victorian gentlewoman with consumption if he goes into Martin withdrawal, this whole situation doesn’t feel sustainable, and we don’t know if there might be other side effects to going so long without satisfying the curse. Let’s not waste an entire work day just because you want to use the buddy system.” 

“That’s not--” Tim begins, but he’s interrupted by Martin’s yelp. 

_“Jon,”_ he says, taking a step back. 

Jon quickly puts his hands behind his back, like a kid caught rummaging around in the cookie jar. He looks guilty and defiant in equal measure. “What? I didn’t do anything wrong. It was just your _hair._ I wanted to touch it. There’s nothing strange or inappropriate about that.” 

Martin runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it self consciously down. Okay, so he can’t just… look away from Jon and try and act like he’s not there, even if it might feel easier. Not when Jon’s paying so much attention to _him._

It’s probably rude, anyways, in addition to being impractical and unwise. Callous. 

“... Okay,” Tim says, and when Martin looks back towards him, Tim’s eyes are on Jon. “Fine, let’s start doing fieldwork during the work day again, if it’s not necessary to do it after work hours.”

“Thank you, Tim,” Sasha says, her shoulders sinking back down from where they’d been rising. She’d been preparing herself for an argument, he realizes. Or a very heated debate, at least. She looks less ready to whip out a powerpoint presentation to support her argument now, and more sympathetic. “You can take this one, if you want,” she offers graciously. 

Tim looks back at her, gives her a humorless smile. “I appreciate it.” 

“... We should definitely alternate, though--”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” 

Tim leaves to go and pursue the next link in the chain that is the history of the rose. Martin settles in at his desk. Jon settles down on the edge of it, looking like he’s just barely keeping himself from pouncing at Martin. He even tries to ask Sasha to go and fetch something that would take her out of the Archives a few times. She doesn’t dignify those coy attempts at manipulation with more than a snort. 

They determinedly settle into their work, Jon occasionally interrupting it with amateurish attempts at flirtation that Sasha feels mildly guilty for finding so amusing. Jon has apparently read about the ‘casually touch their arm while talking’ method. It doesn’t seem to occur to him that the fact that he’s groped Martin several times sort of defeats the purpose of it. Martin jumps in his chair each time Jon reaches for him like he’s preparing himself to dive out of his seat if his hand seems like it’s going anywhere lower. He looks as stressed as a rabbit with an anxiety disorder. 

Eventually, she decides to take mercy on him and interrupts them. 

“Martin, you remember that I told you that you should remind me that I’ve got something to talk to you about?” 

“What?” Martin says, turning his harried face to her. He looks blank with incomprehension for a moment, before realization visibly dawns over him. “Oh, right!” 

He waits. 

She grins. 

“... Sasha, what-- oh.” He rolls his eyes. “Sasha, remember that there’s something you wanted to talk with me about?” 

“Thank you for reminding me, Martin,” she says sweetly. 

“You’re welcome,” he says dryly. Jon reaches out for him again, and he flinches slightly, but Jon’s hand settles on his arm again. He visibly grits his teeth and determines to forge on despite it. “So, what is it?” 

“It’s Friday,” she says. “Jon got really sick after just two days without you. What are we going to do about the weekend?” 

Martin blanches. “Oh.” 

“Exactly. We’ve got to arrange things so that Jon can keep getting his regular dose of you, even while we’re all out of office. I mean, I’m going to keep working on the case, of course, but it might draw attention if we all keep coming in to work throughout the whole weekend.” 

And attention, she doesn’t say, is the last thing they want to draw. Her decision to not involve Artefact Storage with the dangerous supernatural artefact they’ve discovered, despite that being the department's literal function, has been percolating in the back of her mind. She’s been picking at it here and there, trying to figure out _why_ she did it. Sure, she refuses to be on the same floor as Artefact Storage if she can at all avoid it, not to mention actually _entering_ the place, but she could just call them or send an email for assistance. But she’d made the choice to keep them out of it, to keep this problem within the Archival department, despite the fact that more eyes on the problem could help. 

More or less everyone in the Institute may genuinely believe in the supernatural, but letting everyone know about what Jon’s going through feels… wrong. If she were in his position, vulnerable and manipulated and acting in a way that she’d later find _humiliating,_ she wouldn’t want for _anyone_ to know, to see her like that. 

That’s obviously impossible, considering that someone actually needs to solve the problem, but… there’s no need to pull in more people than necessary, right? She, Tim, and Martin can figure this out on their own. They don’t need to ask the rest of the Institute for help. They can fix this, and Jon will be okay, and then they’ll hand the rose and their findings over to Artefact Storage, and Jon can make the decision himself whether or not he wants for them to take what happened to him to their graves or not. That, she’s decided, is the decent thing to do. And it’s _not_ impractical, because she’s going to work hard enough to make up for not having the entirety of the rest of the Institute’s help. 

“I guess he could… live with me during the weekends?” Martin asks, wincing even as he says it. Jon seems to have forgotten that the arm touch is supposed to be a brief, casual thing, and has been appreciatively rubbing his hand up and down Martin’s arm for the last minute now. “Like a sleepover?” 

Jon snaps out of his tactile reverie at that. “You want for me to sleep over at your place?” he asks eagerly. 

“Um--” Martin says uncertainly. 

“That’s brilliant,” he breathes. “I could wake you up in the morning by sucking you off. You could be hard and in my mouth before you’re even awake.”

Sasha points at Jon. “Yeah, see, that’s why that’s a bad idea. You can’t be alone _and_ asleep around Jon right now. He’ll rape you without even realizing that that’s what he’s doing.” 

“Right,” Martin says faintly. 

Jon shoots her an annoyed glare, like she’s being a petty, sabotaging bitch. She sticks her tongue out at him. 

“I-- I’ll figure something else out, then--” 

There’s a knock at the door. They freeze. 

Another knock at the door. Martin and Sasha trade twin expressions of wide eyed panic. 

Tim wouldn’t knock. There’s someone else knocking on the other side of that door, and Jon’s sitting on Martin’s fucking desk like a lovestruck schoolgirl instead of acting like the Head Archivist. 

“You go get it,” she says. Leaving Martin alone with Jon isn’t a good idea, they’re all in agreement about that. Propriety is the only thing keeping him _vaguely_ in check. “I’ll look after Jon.” 

“No,” Jon says. She’s beginning to get used to this routine. She feels like the mom whose kid always throws a tantrum when he’s being left behind at kindergarten for the day. Or the teacher who’s left with the task of soothing said rampaging kid as the mom drives away, maybe. 

“It’s just for a couple of minutes and then he’ll be back,” she says reasonably, getting up from her desk. Jon gets off of Martin’s, edging distrustfully away from her. He’s getting used to the routine as well, apparently. She approaches, trying to figure out how to corner him without causing a commotion. 

Fuck, now that she’s standing up again, the foot that she’d accidentally sliced open a bit during the chase is stinging like a motherfucker. 

The person at the door knocks again. She shoots Martin a look, and he hurries to go and answer it. Jon takes the opportunity to try and dodge around her, and she lunges for him. 

“Why are you always getting my _way,”_ Jon hisses at her, trying to shove her off of himself. 

“Shut up, be _quiet,”_ she hisses back, grappling him as best as she can. At least he’s not really fighting her, there’s no biting or scratching or anything like that. He’s just being an annoying bitch. “This is for your own good.” 

“Am I the only person in this office who cares about efficiency? Getting things done?” 

“In case you hadn’t noticed, you’ve actually been getting in the way of a lot of work productivity lately! Including actually important stuff!” 

“Fucking Martin _is_ important, what part of this aren’t you understanding!?” 

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” she says, shoving a hand over his mouth to try and silence him. 

“Is that Sasha I hear behind you?” an older male voice asks pleasantly from the doorway. With a sinking stomach, she recognizes Elias. 

Martin laughs, high and forced, clearly trying to block his view from the doorway with his bulk in a way that seems casual and coincidental. “She’s busy with something,” he says. _“Really_ busy.” 

“I won’t take up much of her time, then,” Elias says. 

“Um, I don’t think--” 

“If you could just fetch her for me? I only need a few minutes of her time.” 

“She’s doing something that’s sort of time sensitive, actually, so maybe you could talk to her later? Like, in a few hours?” 

“Hmm, I don’t know. I _suppose_ I could talk to Jon about it instead? Is he in, could you go and get him for me?” 

“... I’ll see if Sasha’s done with her thing now.” 

“Thank you, Martin.” 

Martin closes the door, and turns and looks at Sasha. _‘What the fuck’_ she mouths at him. He shrugs at her helplessly. 

“Fucking _fine,”_ she says. “I’ll be gone for a few minutes. You can fend him off for that long, right?” 

“Right,” Martin says. He sounds less like he’s saying ‘yes, I can be alone with Jon for five minutes, don’t you worry Sasha’ and more like he’s giving himself a very poor peptalk, assuring himself that yes, he _can_ do this. “Don’t worry, I can-- I’ve got this. Yep.” 

Sasha reluctantly lets go of Jon, who huffs and straightens his shirt like they weren’t just locked in a brawl fit for elementary school children on the playground. She straightens her own clothes as well, fixing her hair as she walks towards the doors, away from the Archives, to Elias. 

He’d _better_ only need her for a few minutes. 

The doors close behind Sasha with a terrible sense of finality. 

This is all pretty melodramatic, probably, but also Martin hasn’t been alone with Jon for days now and he’s built up an incredible amount of nerves around the possibility. 

Jon looks away from the doors, to Martin. Back to the doors, then to Martin. He can almost see him putting the pieces together in real time. They’re alone. 

Martin points a finger at him. “Don’t even think about it.” 

“Why not?” Jon asks. “We’re _alone._ So, it’s not inappropriate.” 

“I think fucking at work is kind of inherently inappropriate, actually! Even if someone isn’t there to see!” 

“That’s stupid,” Jon disagrees. “If you’re not supposed to fuck me in my office, then why is my desk the perfect height for you to bend me over on? Hm?” 

Martin hates that he’s had that exact thought more times than he can count. A thought strikes him. 

“If you’ve--” _lubed yourself up_ except oh god he can’t just _say_ that he’d combust, _“prepared_ yourself again then don’t tell me. I don’t want to know!” 

He desperately needs to know. 

“I didn’t, actually,” Jon says, and Martin’s simultaneously profoundly relieved and deeply disappointed. He kind of wants to slap himself for that last one. “Tim was right, it started to feel pretty uncomfortable after a while. I’ll just prepare myself when you finally get over this weird… hangup of yours, and finally take what you want. I have the bottle in my upper left drawer.” 

“I didn’t need to know that,” he says. 

“But now you do.” 

“Sasha said that she was only going to be back for a _few minutes,”_ he says. “So we don’t have the time to do something anyways. Her walking in on me--” god, just say it, he’s trying to make a point sharp enough to get through Jon’s thick, cursed skull, “--buried to the hilt inside of you--” Jon _reacts_ to that, eyes flaring and leaning in with his whole body like he’s scented blood in the water, “--then that would _definitely_ be inappropriate.” 

Jon… actually seems to consider this for a moment, frowning thoughtfully, presumably imagining the hypothetical picture of the future that Martin has painted for him. And then he does something that is very, very close to a pout. 

“I _suppose,”_ he says in the most grudging voice Martin has ever heard from him. 

Several muscles in Martin’s body unclench all at once, releasing almost a dizzying amount of relief in him in the process. 

“Yes,” he says dumbly. “Yeah. Great. Exactly. So we can’t do anything! Too bad.” 

“You don’t have to sound so _pleased,”_ he says sulkily. “I don’t understand why you’re gloating about a _bad_ thing.” 

“I know you don’t understand,” he says, sitting back down in his chair. He feels weirdly worn out all of a sudden, like he’s coming down from an extremely petty and mundane adrenaline high. “It’s okay. You will in a while.” 

“I hope you realize how frustrating you’re being right now,” Jon says, settling down in Tim’s chair, turned so that he’s looking at Martin. His collar is still open. It’s a permanent style choice for now, apparently. It’s weird, seeing prim and proper Jon like this. Almost as weird as everything else about him is nowadays. 

He’s probably decided to stick with the collar thing because he’s caught Martin looking several times now. He can always tell when he’s been caught, because Jon always looks so pleased with himself afterwards. Martin swears to god that he wasn’t so perceptive before. Or maybe he just wasn’t specifically looking for signs that Martin was ogling him before that became vital information for him to have, anyways. 

He really shouldn’t be encouraging him. He shouldn’t be _looking._ It’s just… god, that open collar looks like an invitation to his mouth to cover all of the revealed skin there with kissed bruises. 

He notices that Jon’s smiling, looking terribly pleased with himself. Caught again. He flushes and looks away, turning back to his computer. 

“Almost everything you’ve said for the past week now has either been mentally scarring or incredibly, stupidly ironic,” he says, and determines to ignore Jon until Sasha comes back. He’s convinced him not to pull anything, so it should be fine. He just needs to… stop encouraging. Keep his eyes to himself. 

Easier said than done. 

Tim… hadn’t been expecting this. He’d pictured another sniveling rapist like that piece of shit neighbour. He could squeeze information from a guy like that with no guilt or remorse, and he’d only feel strange and detached from his own body for a little while in exchange. 

Or maybe a former victim. He doesn’t know what it would’ve been like, to get to talk to someone who’s suffered effects of the rose and gotten through to the other side of it. On the one hand, he really wants to see the evidence that Jon _can_ get back to himself with his own eyes. He knows from Mrs. Ennulat that it’s possible, but still, he’d really like to talk to someone who was in Jon’s position, and see that they’re okay now. Ask for advice, if there’s anything he can do for Jon when he’s normal again that might help. 

On the other hand, if he’d talked to a former victim and they _hadn’t_ been okay, that… that wouldn’t have been good. Not at all. 

This however, he had somehow not thought to expect, and is also so much worse. 

He’s been talking to the widow of a victim of the rose’s curse for a while now. He feels _wretched._

“I’m sorry,” she says, eyes red rimmed. It’s only been a few months since her husband’s funeral, apparently. “I just wasn’t expecting for him to be brought up today.” 

“It’s alright,” is all he can think to say. 

He’s had to talk to grieving family members a few times before, while following leads in Research. It’s always stung like a bitch, too close to home. He always tries to exhaust every other opportunity before he goes and bothers the next of kin. Jon needs for him to do this, though. He only wishes that having been on the other side of this situation would’ve better equipped him for this, would’ve taught him what to say or not say. Somehow, it hasn’t. He feels as unprepared and blundering and tactless as he’d felt at his first funeral at age ten, trying to come up with something to say that would make grandma feel less sad. All charm and wit gone, just like that. 

“He…” she says. “He got the rose from a coworker of his. She’d always had a bit of a thing for him, it was obvious. But harmless. I _know_ Noah would never cheat on me, so I didn’t really mind. I didn’t feel threatened.

“I’ve always been a bit spiritual, but what happened after he got the flower… the way it changed him, it was unbelievable. But I had no _choice_ but to believe, the evidence was right in front of me. She’d found a way to-- to enchant him, make him be _infatuated_ with her. I didn’t know what to _do_ , I…” 

She trails off, and he gives her a moment. It stretches on, though, and… he really does need to know more. 

“He slept with her?” he prods her, the inevitable next step. 

She rubs at her eyes. “No,” she says wetly. 

That… makes him sit up straighter. “Oh?” 

“He _wanted_ to,” she says. “But I know he didn’t really. She’d just made him think that he did. So-- I couldn’t let her take advantage of him like that, right? I kept him away from her at all times. He’d go wild every time he so much as caught a glimpse of her, but if I just made sure he never got to see her at all, he was normal. He was my Noah. He didn’t seem to be able to understand that there was something wrong with him, but I begged for him to take a week off and stay home with me, and he did.” 

“I see,” he says, inanely. His mind is already skipping steps ahead, connecting dots and drawing conclusions. When she’d told him that her husband was dead, he’d assumed that the man had killed himself once the curse was broken and he’d realized what had happened, but this… fuck, if this is what he thinks it is-- 

“A day in, he started getting sick. Like a bad cold. And then it got worse the next day, a _lot_ worse. I drove him to a hospital, it was so bad. The day after that, he got even worse. It was like he wasn’t even coherent, he’d just… mumble _her_ name, asking after her, where she was, if he could see her. I thought… you know the saying ‘it’s always darkest before dawn?’ I thought he was just-- just sweating the curse out or something. Like how junkies go through a brutal withdrawal, but if they can just fight through it to the other end without succumbing then… then they’re fine. They’re okay. He just had to get through it, no matter how much it hurt, and then he’d be okay again.” 

He realizes after a long moment that she’s waiting for him to say something. 

“Right,” he says. “Makes sense.” 

“I thought it did. I really did. But… he died on the fourth day. It was ho-- horrible. He just-- the doctors couldn’t figure out what was happening to him. No matter what they tried, he just kept deteriorating. Like a wilting flower.” 

It’s good, he thinks distantly, to at least get confirmation that Jon definitely won’t be able to survive prolonged separation from Martin. Sasha’s going to say that it’s useful information. 

She muffles a noise that would sound like a sob if she had the breath for it. She looks at him, tears running down her face, not trying to wipe them away any longer. She looks intense, wide eyed and unblinking. 

“Was it my fault?” she asks him. “Would he have died if I’d just let him-- if I’d let her take him?” 

_No,_ he doesn’t say. 

If someone else had seen Danny die, had seen _something else_ inside of his skin where his brother should be-- would he have wanted for them to tell him the truth? Or lie? 

He really wishes losing someone would’ve made him better equipped for handling this. But he doesn’t even know how to handle having lost Danny, not really. He didn’t handle a single inch of it gracefully. He can’t give anyone advice, and he can’t think of a single thing anyone could’ve said to him that would’ve made it all easier. 

She looks so desperate. 

“Yes,” he says. “He would’ve died eventually anyways. I’m sorry.” 

She doesn’t look relieved or happy, exactly. But her face goes clear, resigned, her shoulders loosening. 

“Oh,” she says dully. 

Tim gives her a long, long moment. But Jon needs him so he breaks the silence eventually. The name of the coworker in question, the next link in the chain, is vital information. 

“We have an IT department,” Sasha says again. Sure, said department has less than five people in it, but it’s still a department. And it’s _their_ job to fix it when someone manages to fuck their computer up beyond all recognition. 

“I tried them, Sasha,” Elias says. “They simply couldn’t figure out a fix. But I knew _you_ could. Jon goes on about how talented you are. I think you’re his favorite, you know.” 

She grits her teeth and narrows her eyes, trying to focus on the code. The faster she can wrangle this, the faster she can get back to Jon and Martin. Christ, but what did he do to the poor thing? She can’t remember the last time she encountered a piece of software this fucked up. 

“I’ve been watching a show lately,” he says, and she bites back a sigh. She hates office small talk, but Elias is her boss. She kind of wants to not play along anyways, since she’s looking for other places to work, but-- references are important. Have to leave him with a good impression of her. Even if he _is_ treating her like his teenage niece that’s talented with technology instead of, say, the obvious next pick for Head Archivist. 

“Oh?” she says, focusing ninety nine percent of her attention on the computer. Fuck, but it almost looks like he screwed the thing up on purpose, it’s so bad. 

“I admit it’s… fairly trashy. Mindless garbage, in a way. No serious plot, no high stakes. I really should be spending my time on more worthwhile things. But it’s _fun,_ and I’m not perfect.”

“Mm,” she agrees, trying not to think about Elias watching… Teen Wolf, or Glee or something like that. It’s probably not that. Wrong age group. “It’s nice to watch easy stuff, sometimes.” 

“Exactly. It’s… relaxing. And _very_ amusing. The plot’s been a bit slow lately, though. Everything caught in a boring status quo. I hope things get shaken up soon, and something new happens.” 

“Yeah,” she says, not paying attention. It’s been way longer than a few minutes by now, and she seriously needs to get back down to the Archives. “I’m sure there’ll be a new dramatic twist again, soon.”

It’s fine. It’s probably fine. Martin’s way bigger than Jon, she’s worrying over nothing. 

“You know, I think you may be right, Sasha. That’s the nature of these sorts of shows, yes? Something new and exciting always happens eventually. Even if it’s forced.” 

She hums agreement, and focuses on fixing this mess as fast as possible. 

Martin does a very good job of ignoring Jon, until Jon reminds him of what a bad idea it is to ignore him. He drops an entire mug of tea onto the floor when Jon crawls onto his lap. 

“Shit!” 

“Hello,” Jon says, looping his arms around Martin’s neck, looking utterly unrepentant at the mess he’s made. 

“How the fuck-- Jon, don’t do that!”

“I’ve been steadily creeping closer for the last five minutes, and you didn’t even notice. Also, Sasha isn’t back yet, so I think we can safely assume that Elias is keeping her for longer than a few minutes. I’ve lost count of how many of my meetings with him have dragged out for _hours.”_

Martin sets his hands on Jon’s hips to lift him off his lap. Jon makes a small, excited noise at that, and his hands spring away immediately, raised in the air like he’s being held at gunpoint. 

“Jon,” he says stiffly. “Get off of my--” lap. Nope, can’t say it. “Get off of me.” 

“I read a magazine that said that making the first move is best if you’re dealing with a shy person,” he says. “Being bold and taking the initiative is important.” 

“You haven’t been doing that already!?” he asks, voice breaking a bit. 

Jon lifts himself up on his knees a bit, and Martin has one relieved, incredulous moment to think that he’s actually listening to him and getting off, before Jon lowers himself back down on Martin’s lap and-- _grinds._

“Fuck,” he hisses, hands flying back towards Jon’s hips, just to have something to hold onto. Jon makes a pleased noise at that, and grinds down harder, a sinuous movement that makes his dick very, very aware of Jon’s crotch and-- _everything._ He bites his tongue, and then tightens his grip, lifting Jon upwards so he’s not-- _touching stuff_ any longer. 

Jon makes a frustrated noise, and then leans in, pressing his lips against Martin’s. Martin turns his face away. Jon huffs hot breath against Martin’s ear, sounding pissed and needy in equal measure. 

_“Why are you doing this?”_ he asks, sounding so, so frustrated. His teeth graze Martin’s ear, and yeah, that does it, he has to create some _distance._

For some reason, his brain decides to parse that decision by shoving Jon onto his desk, lying on his back. He stands up, his chair screeching backwards. The only reason why Jon doesn’t land on his computer is because it’s positioned at an angle. He tries to sit up, and Martin just shoves him back down with a hand on his chest, and then it keeps it there, pinning him. Jon looks up at him, flushed and dark eyed, panting. He looks furious. He looks _gorgeous._

He’s thought about this before. So many of the things he’s thought about are happening now, and it’s not fair, it’s not right. It was okay for him to think about those things, even to-- even to touch himself over them, but that was because Jon was _okay._ He didn’t have to know. He didn’t have to be bothered by it. He wasn’t affected by it in any way, so it didn’t matter. Martin’s crush was never, ever going to hurt him. It was just… something fun to think about at work, or when he was trying to release some tension at the end of the day. 

Martin’s always liked small guys. People he could shove around. And that’s awful, what an awful thing to be attracted to someone for. He doesn’t want to be like that. He doesn’t want to be like his _dad,_ who’d loom and shout to win an argument. He can’t remember his face, but he remembers that. But it’s not _like_ that, he just-- he doesn’t want to-- to intimidate anyone, not ever. He just… 

The idea of picking Jon up, of taking him away and holding him down somewhere safe, pinned and pressed down and _secure_ between Martin’s arms, the idea of holding him tightly and fucking him hard until he’s a limp, exhausted, unwound mess beneath him that can finally just _relax_ and let Martin take care of him-- 

That still doesn’t sound good. He doesn’t want to hurt him, he’s not _malicious,_ but… that doesn’t sound good either. It sounds controlling, _possessive._

But he’d convinced himself that it was okay, so long as it all just stayed inside of his head. So long as nothing ever really came of it. But now, he’s getting the awful, dreadful feeling that the curse may have turned Jon’s attention towards him because of this stupid crush he’s _nurtured,_ like it was just a fun, harmless hobby. 

How had he been supposed to know? This isn’t fair. He hadn’t asked for this. Jon hadn’t asked for this. No one had, this isn’t _fair--_

“Martin?” Jon asks. Martin’s still got him pinned to the desk. His hands are touching the one he’s got pressed down on Jon’s chest, not trying to claw at it or pry it away, just softly touching it. He doesn’t look angry any longer, just… he doesn’t know. He’s probably just hoping that Martin might tear his clothes off, or something. That’s all that’s on his mind any longer. He can’t focus on anything _but_ Martin, when he’s around. Always so single minded, every word out of his mouth eager or urging or fawning, doing everything he can to crawl into his lap to fuck him. 

Martin… misses Jon. He still acts like Jon, in a twisted sort of way, but… this isn’t him. These aren’t the things he’d say or the things he’d do. 

“Have I upset you?” Jon asks, and he sounds genuinely _concerned._

“I--” he says, and blinks rapidly. He hadn’t been expecting that. He shakes his head, trying to clear it. “I’m sorry for shoving you, Jon.” 

He takes his hand away from Jon’s chest. Takes him by the shoulders, helps to pull him up gently back to his feet. He’d _shoved_ Jon onto his _desk._ That only just now starts to register. Oh, Christ. 

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asks, resisting the urge to pull Jon’s shirt up to look for bruises. That would not go well. Plus, it’d just be rude even if he was himself, honestly. 

“Only in a good way,” Jon assures him, which, okay. Geeze. 

Martin rubs his face with his hands. “I think I’m just… tired. That’s all. Been a long day.” More like a long _week._

“Well, you should rest, then,” Jon says. 

“Wow,” Martin says. “You don’t think that’d be better solved by sex?” 

“Well, an orgasm probably _would_ help you loosen up, if you want--” 

“Jon.” 

“Be that way. Maybe later, when you’re feeling better, then?” He looks so _hopeful_ about it. God, this is killing him. 

Martin looks at him, and for the first time seriously considers doing it. Caving in. Giving up. Not because he wants to, but because there’s no way Jon wants to be stuck like this. They’ve been working on cracking this thing so, so hard, and it feels like all signs _still_ point to the only possible solution being sex. If it ends the same way no matter what, then just drawing it out is… cruel. And Martin never wants to be cruel. Especially to Jon. 

It’s only been a week, he reminds himself. He can hold out hope a bit longer. If he can find a solution to this that doesn’t include taking advantage of Jon, then it’ll all have been worth it, right? 

It has to be. 

“Maybe later,” he says, and Jon smiles. 

It’s unfair, how beautiful his smiles are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration was done by [lo-fi-charming!](https://lo-fi-charming.tumblr.com/) Check their stuff out!


	3. a bouquet of flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin’s been thinking about what he’s going to have to do, to prepare for the weekend.

Martin’s been thinking about what he’s going to have to do, to prepare for the weekend. Sasha’s right, he can’t just leave Jon alone for two whole days. He also can’t have Jon stay with him at his flat for two whole days either, that’s just _begging_ for trouble. There’s no way that doesn’t end in disaster. 

So, he comes up with a compromise. 

“What if I visited him over the weekend?” he suggests. Jon is currently holed up in his office, where he retreated shortly after Tim and Sasha came back, presumably doing something terrible that Martin really wants to distract himself from so that he doesn’t fret over whatever dark deeds he’s committing now. “And one of you came with me, so he doesn’t… you know, go _completely_ overboard.” 

“Counter proposal,” says Sasha. “You just go on a date with Jon in public, freeing me and Tim up to do fieldwork for the whole weekend. He’s not going to try and climb you if you’re surrounded by people, right?” 

“I-- that sounds _horrible,”_ he says. “Jon _barely_ behaves even when the two of you are in the same room as us. If he acts like that around strangers who don’t know what’s going on he-- I don’t know, he might get the _cops_ called on him or something.” 

“It does kind of look like he’s sexually harassing you,” she grants. “... Because he is. Oh, but you could just play along with it and act like you’re his boyfriend, right? Which makes it all look much less alarming.” 

“No! That’d include-- I’m not going to kiss him back. He’d hate that!” When he’s normal again, that is. 

Which is definitely going to happen. God, but just let it be soon. 

“You could string him along on good behaviour,” she says. “You know, sort of imply ‘if you keep your hands to yourself and behave I might actually do you.’ _I’ve_ done that on dates before. It’s not hard.” 

“What?” Tim says, snapping out of a thousand yard stare. He’s been lost in his head a lot, since he came back from that interview that confirmed that if Martin isn’t around Jon for four days, he’ll _die._ What if something happens and they’re separated for that long by force? He has no idea how something like that would happen, but he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it since Tim told him about the dead victim. Tim frowns. “Someone was a shitty date to you?” 

“Most dates are mediocre at best, Tim,” she says. 

“I’m not sure that that’d work,” Martin says. “Jon’s… really intense right now. About me. I’m not sure he can really parse ‘wait now and you can get something later.’ And that’d probably only work once after he realizes that I was lying anyways.” 

He can’t help but shoot another nervous look towards Jon’s office door. He’s been there for what feels like too long. What’s he _doing_ in there? 

A crystal clear image of Jon _straining_ to fully spear himself on a large toy, breath and thighs trembling with exertion, appears in his mind’s eye. 

He clenches his fists and makes himself look away from the door. Sasha notices his brief distraction anyways. 

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I put a child lock on his computer so he can’t find any advice that’s _too_ bad while researching.” 

“Great,” he says. He resists the urge to anxiously ask anyone if they’ve seen Jon with a bag today, anything large enough to carry a dildo or a vibrator in. Jon always comes into work first, anyways. They wouldn’t have seen it. _If_ Jon’s even done something like that. He might not have! It’s not like Jon’s suddenly turned into a nymphomaniac. He doesn’t seem interested in having anything inside of him except very specifically for Martin’s cock. So, no toys. 

Unless he got it in his head that he has to practice in advance for taking Martin’s dick. 

God, please don’t let him have gotten that into his head. He can’t even try and feel it out with him whether he has or not, because that might be all the prodding he needs for it to occur to him in the first place. 

“I know the whole flirting thing is bad,” Tim says, “but I’m really grateful that he seems to have accidentally ended up on the ‘how to get yourself a man, ladies’ flirting advice side of the internet instead of the incel part. Imagine if he tried to neg Martin, guys.” 

“Oh my god,” Martin says, aghast at the image, and Sasha throws her head back and cackles like that’s not a horrible fate that they just very narrowly avoided by sheer luck. 

“Oh god! What if he sent you dick pics?” she says, grinning. 

“It’s not funny!” he says, high pitched and indignant. He can feel his face flushing. Oh god, _what if_ Jon did that? That sounds exactly like something he’d think is a good idea right now. He’s so, so lucky that Jon acts twice his age. He probably doesn’t even know what dick pics are. Or at least he really, really hopes so. 

“I mean, I know it’s messed up, but it’s also pretty funny.” 

“It is _not,”_ he grumbles to himself. He makes himself change the subject. “But what am I going to do about the weekend? I really think me and one of you visiting his flat together is the best option.” 

“Me and Tim could make so much headway on fieldwork during the weekend, though! Our next lead, the coworker of the widow’s husband, hasn’t been answering any of my calls or emails, probably because she’s at work. Lots of leads will suddenly be able to talk to us now that it’s the weekend and most people don’t have to go do their jobs. We could find multiple new links in the chain in the span of just a couple of days!” 

“I don’t see why that needs _both_ of you.” 

“Yeah, see, I actually agree with you there,” Sasha says, and he blinks. She smiles brightly at him. “Bring it up with Tim!” 

He looks at Tim, who’s giving Sasha a bit of a betrayed look. “Way to throw me under the bus. What happened to a united front?” 

“I never agreed to that.” 

“Why can’t just one of you do the interviews?” Martin asks. 

“Because--” Tim says. 

“Because it’s _my_ turn next,” Sasha interrupts him, despite having handed the conversational ball over to Tim. “And _I_ don’t get to do solo interviews, apparently.” 

“She’s literally a murderer,” he says. 

“Oh, wow,” Martin says. 

“I feel like it’s more a case of manslaughter, actually,” she says. “ _We_ didn’t even know that Jon couldn’t be away from Martin for a prolonged amount of time. How was she supposed to know?” 

“The person she got it from could’ve known and told her more. Listen, I’m _not_ trying to-- to coddle you, or something. It’s just-- she killed someone! That’s not exaggeration or hyperbole, it’s what she did. _None_ of us should be going to go and talk to her alone.” 

“She doesn’t have a magical artefact _or_ a reason to use it on any of us.” 

“We don’t know that! If she knew where to get the rose, she might know where to get more stuff like that. And if she realizes that we know that it’s her fault that that man died, she might do something-- bad. It’s better if we go together.” 

Sasha’s opening her mouth, presumably to continue what is quickly turning into an incredibly uncomfortable to witness argument, when Jon’s office door opens. They all turn to look at him. 

Martin is very relieved to note that he’s got all of his clothes on, and he can’t see an expression of strain or something like it on his face. He just looks vaguely concerned. 

“Is something the matter?” he asks. 

“No,” they all say in unison. 

He narrows his eyes at them suspiciously. “... Right.” 

And then he turns his focus on Martin, of course. Martin gives him a strained smile. 

Weirdly, Jon doesn’t smile back. Martin has to take a moment just to process the fact that Jon not smiling back at him feels strange now. Jon just looks at him for a long moment, frowning, as if he’s trying to see something. 

“Well, try and keep the noise down,” he eventually says, without even asking Martin if he maybe wants to come into his office and also take all of his clothes off while he’s there. It’s borderline baffling behaviour. 

He closes the door. Martin looks at Tim and Sasha, just to confirm that that was definitely weird, right? 

“He’s up to something,” Sasha says with certainty. “Again.” 

“Nooo,” he whines, slumping in his seat. _How_ is Jon still catching him off guard like this? He literally can’t seem to think about anything but having sex with Martin for any significant length of time, he shouldn’t be able to keep tearing the rug out from under him. It’s not _fair._

“It’s… probably not going to be anything too bad,” Tim says, sounding like even he’s not convinced by his own words. 

“The lube thing,” Martin says. 

“Okay, point. But he probably can’t do _worse_ than the lube thing. Right?” 

“Please, no.” 

“So, we’re agreed that Tim needs to be with Martin during the weekend, then,” Sasha says. 

“Somehow I’m forgetting that part of the conversation,” Tim says. 

Sasha wants to go to the interview. Tim doesn’t want for Sasha to go to the interview alone. Martin doesn’t want to be left alone with Jon. In the end, there’s no way forward unless one of them budges. 

“You--” she says, and Martin interrupts her. 

“Forget it,” he says. “You can both go to the interview together. I… I’ll figure something out. It’s fine. I managed being left alone with him for an hour today, I can find a way to handle him for a bit longer during the weekend.” 

Tim shoots him a quietly grateful look. Sasha looks surprised, then pleased. That’s good. She’s not opposed to going to the interview with someone, then, just to being kept from going to it entirely. 

“It was _impossible_ to get away from Elias,” she complains. “It felt like being cornered by an aunt during a Christmas party, or like when the dentist starts trying to make small talk with you while he’s got his hands in your mouth and you can’t get away.” 

Martin would have rather had to withstand small talk with Elias than that whole mess with Jon, but he makes a sympathetic noise anyways. 

They get back to work. Sasha’s presumably digging up as much information on the coworker of the latest uncovered rose victim as she can, up to and including her social security number. Tim still seems sort of distracted. Martin, as usual, is trying to stop his brain from sliding into the gutter, or to go into a useless guilt spiral. Jon stays inside of his office. 

He worries away at the weekend problem. Sure, Jon could probably survive the weekend without Martin, if that woman’s husband took four days to die but… he’d rather not push their luck like that. Or potentially put Jon on the edge of death’s door just because anything else would be _inconvenient._

He’s got the rest of the day to figure this out, at least. He can sleep on it. 

Jon is starting to get worried about Martin. 

Until now, he’s only been frustrated and confused by his bizarre insistence on not taking what he wants. But now it’s beginning to get… concerning. 

Earlier today, when it had been just him and Martin alone, and Martin had shoved him onto his desk and Jon was _so sure_ that things were finally going to go somewhere, Martin’s face had… his expression had _twisted,_ crumpling at the edges. He’d looked on the verge of tears. Jon hadn’t known what to do with that, except that it was _wrong._ Martin shouldn’t be upset. He should be happy. Enjoying himself, indulging. He should be buried inside of Jon, he should feel _perfect._

But instead, he’s not. He’s restraining himself, holding back. All of this time he’s been distracted by the baffling why of it all, not thinking about what that might be doing to Martin himself. That can't be good for him, can it? Not taking what he wants. It’s not right. 

Jon needs to fuck Martin. He’s known this, has felt it to the core of him, an urgent, bone deep need. But now he needs to do it not just because Martin fucking his cock into the hot clutch of Jon’s throat is right and wanted and natural, but because _Martin_ needs it as badly as Jon does. It’s twisting him up inside, not fucking Jon breathless and screaming. He just can’t seem to actually let himself do it, despite that. Which means that it’s up to Jon to find a way to get him to get past that. He has to find a way to fix this. 

What he’s already been doing clearly isn’t working, anyways. Not enough for it to matter, at least. He has to figure out something else, something new that’ll make things finally tip over the edge. 

Martin had said that fucking at work, even if no one else was there, was inherently innappropriate. That had been his excuse. That doesn’t make any sense to Jon, it doesn’t feel right or correct. It feels like a lie, or a mistake. Martin’s wrong. Fucking at work is _excellent._ He’d be happy taking Martin’s cock anywhere, but the idea of him bending him over his desk is just… especially appealing. 

But, if that’s Martin’s excuse, then that’s an easy fix isn’t it? 

It’s been yet another long day. Even if Martin isn’t doing any field work, or even if Jon isn’t shouting at him over mistakes or deadlines any longer, work days have become really… draining. Challenging. Harrowing. He always gets home exhausted, anyways. 

And then there’s the daily internal wrestling match with himself over whether he’s going to go and take a cold shower before settling in for the day, or… not doing that. 

He doesn’t want to think about how many times he’s caved and gone for option number two. He always feels so scummy afterwards, a low grade simmering feeling of guilt in the back of his head for the rest of the day for having a wank over this whole situation, because _seriously?_ Really? But in the moment, it feels good. It feels like an urgently needed release after _hours_ of being idly wound up and teased. 

Martin gets home. He starts to take his clothes off. For a cold shower. Then he’ll get dressed in something comfortable, and he’ll eat something that’s quick and easy to make, and he’ll try and distract himself and shut his brain off for the rest of the day. Then he’ll go to bed, and he’ll wake up, and… he’ll figure something out with Jon, find a way to spend time with him this weekend without letting anything unfortunate happen. 

God, he’s not even going to be getting weekends off from this whole situation. 

Fuck, that was a shitty thing to think. It’s not like Jon’s getting weekends off from being _cursed._ Tim and Sasha will be working through the weekend too, chasing down leads. All hands on deck. They’ve got to figure this whole thing out as fast as possible. The situation’s stable for now, but… 

Having Jon be borderline out of his mind with how much he wants Martin every single day is just-- it’s not okay. 

He sorts his clothes out, what needs to be washed and what can be worn again, and he’s a bit tiredly relieved to realize that he’s mostly just exhausted and guilty today, too much so to let the thought of Jon doing things -of doing things to Jon- make him do anything that he’s going to feel shitty about later. 

\--Jon working himself slowly, gradually, impatiently down on a toy that’s too big for him, trying to take it, to be ready and worked open for Martin--

No, that didn’t even _happen._ Nope. Not today. Get in the shower. Cold water. Go. 

Before he gets in, there’s a knocking sound. He stops. It happens again. 

Is someone seriously knocking at his door? Without calling ahead? Who the hell does that, nowadays? He can’t think of a single person he knows that would. Which means it’s probably a stranger, wanting something… well, probably annoying. 

Or it could just be a neighbour wanting a cup of sugar. Do people still do that? He has no idea. It sounds kind of quaint and fake. Or at least like something that only people who live in suburbs do. 

Again, the knocking. Whoever it is, they’re stubborn. Martin probably can’t just wait them out. He _shouldn’t_ wait them out. That’d be rude. 

He finds a faded t-shirt and some sweatpants to quickly shrug on, and hurries to answer the door. He could just put on a bathrobe, but he has no idea who’s on the other side of that door, and if it’s a-- a _granny_ or something, then he’d be _mortified--_

He opens the door, and stares. 

“Hello,” Jon says, and gives him a smile like he isn’t standing on his doorstep, and then deftly ducks underneath Martin’s arm and into his flat before he can unfreeze. 

“What,” he says, and turns around. Jon’s looking curiously around Martin’s flat, blatantly inspecting it, like he’s a welcome guest. Martin feels suddenly terribly aware of the empty takeout containers on his coffee table, the _three_ used mugs on his kitchenette counter, the dirty plates soaking in the sink, when was the last time he vacuumed--? 

He almost slaps himself in the face at the self conscious fretting. Jon has _invaded his flat,_ and he’s worrying about how _messy_ it is. 

Jon nods once, as if in some bizarre sort of approval. “This will do,” he says, and then he pulls his shirt off so quickly that Martin is only registering what’s happening by the time it hits the floor. 

“No!” he yelps, and darts forwards to grab at Jon before he gets his belt buckle undone, the door falling shut behind him. 

“Oh, what _now,”_ Jon says, annoyed, as Martin grabs at his wrists and pulls them away from his waist. He struggles the way he usually does when Martin has to manhandle him, like he doesn’t really expect to actually weasel his way out of Martin’s hold, but more like he just enjoys the sensation of squirming against him, of being held down securely. Martin hates it. He hates that he didn’t get the time for a cold shower before whatever _this_ fresh hell is. 

Jon’s not wearing a _shirt._ He wants to cry, a little bit. 

“What are you _doing?”_ he asks, and he really doesn’t like how his voice goes all high pitched when he gets like this, but he doesn’t have the composure left to school it. 

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m fixing things! You said that fucking at work isn’t appropriate, so-- we’re not at work! What’s the problem now, hm? Is having sex in your _home_ inappropriate? What, exactly, is left?” 

“How do you even know where I live!? Did you follow me home?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. Tim and Sasha wouldn’t let me. But I’m your boss, so I just read your file.” 

Martin gapes at him. Jon looks at him, twisting his neck so he can peer at him over his shoulder. He looks like he’s waiting for Martin to stop being silly. 

Logically, Martin knows that he had to write down his current address when he was applying for work at the Magnus Institute. Presumably so the Institute can avoid hiring someone who is ‘in between homes’, or who lives an impractical distance away? And the logic follows that Jon, as his direct superior, may have access to that information if he requested it. And if Jon thought that the problem is that Martin won’t fuck him at work because they’re at _work,_ and he has access to Martin’s address, then the following solution is as simple as two plus two equal four. 

It’s a very, very simple and logical line of thought that is utterly fucking _absurd_ to contemplate. So of course Jon would come up with it. Of course. 

“Are you _crazy?”_ he asks. “This isn’t-- this is not okay, Jon! You can’t just-- just _come to my home_ and-- what were you thinking!?” 

“I was thinking that beds are _traditionally_ where people have sex,” he says, frowning at him like he’s a baffling problem to be solved. “Why are you _still_ not taking what you want? What’s wrong? What’s missing? I don’t _understand.”_

 _Everything,_ he wants to say. Everything is wrong. Except what would that help? Jon wouldn’t understand. He _can’t_ understand, and it’s not even his fault. 

Martin’s shouting at Jon for doing stuff while his common sense is literally supernaturally impaired. Guilt extinguishes his incredulous outrage like a snuffed out candle. Jon is the last person he should be mad at right now. 

“Please just… put your shirt back on,” he says. He has to get Jon out of his flat. Kick him out, lock the door. Except he really doesn’t want to banish him to the hallway while shirtless, like he’s on some sort of walk of shame. 

“No,” Jon says bluntly. 

Would he even go back to his own place if he got kicked out, actually? He accessed Martin’s address in a way that feels super probably not legal, and then waltzed in here confident as you please, like he’s got every right to be here, and Martin’s the weird one for not going along with it. Jon’s stubborn. That was true even before the rose, and now he’s got a literal curse making him even more determined, just completely removing the option of giving up for him. 

A vivid image of Jon stubbornly knocking on his door while partially clothed flashes through his mind, his neighbours opening their doors to peer at him with annoyed curiosity. Or worse, Jon sneaking in through the fucking fire exit, risking fucking life and limb while climbing the rusty stairs. 

Jon has made up his mind to be in Martin’s flat and spread his legs for him tonight, and it feels like Martin’s going to have to do a _lot_ to convince him that this is in fact not what’s going to happen tonight. 

But he’d managed to do that earlier, hadn’t he? When he’d been left alone with Jon in the office. Jon had hounded him, pressed himself up close and just barely resistible, until-- he’d relented. How had he done that, and can he do it again? What was it that had done the trick? … Was it him shoving Jon against the desk? Giving him a small taste of what he wants to temporarily sate him? Or an intimidating show of force to get him to back off? 

The idea of doing either of those things are kind of sickening, in different ways. 

Martin squeaks, knocked off his train of thought as the sensation of Jon subtly rubbing his arse against Martin’s crotch, the way he’s seen confident people dance at clubs, grinding and sensual. Martin’s still holding him by the wrists, chest to Jon’s back, and Jon’s drifted closer towards him while he’s been lost in thought trying to solve this. His grip on Jon’s wrists tighten with surprise, and Jon lets out a pleased sigh. 

He holds his arms out straight, yanking Jon’s wrists along in his grip, and Jon yelps as he stumbles a step forwards, safely out of-- of _grinding_ range. 

_“Behave,”_ he says, and then flushes as his own tone reaches his ears. Like he’s scolding a misbehaving _pet_ or something. 

“Make me,” Jon challenges him. 

Martin remembers what Sasha had said, earlier today. 

_You could string him along on good behaviour. You know, sort of imply ‘if you keep your hands to yourself and behave I might actually do you.’_

He’d said no to that approach, because it’s a lie that he will _inevitably_ be caught out in. It’s a one time, short term solution that might permanently damage how much Jon takes him at his word, and Jon wrangling is already hard enough as it is. 

But he hadn’t had a shirtless Jon in his flat when he’d made that decision, had he? He needs to get him back into his clothes and out of his flat. He needs that cold shower. He needs to _sleep._ He really can’t do that with Jon here. He vividly remembers Jon excitedly asking him if he was going to get to sleep over, how he wanted to wake Martin up with a blowjob. Yeah, no, nope, he has to do and say _whatever_ is needed to get him out of here. Screw the consequences, Martin’s tired and exhausted and _done._ It’s future Martin’s problem now. 

“I’m tired, and it’s late. If you’re good and go back to your place and stay there all night then… I’ll reach out to you tomorrow and…” God, just lie, just say something awful and horny. How hard can it be? He just has to repeat some of the _things_ Jon has been saying the last few days. It’s pretty much all permanently scarred into his brain tissue at this point. “I’ll reward you,” he finishes weakly. 

Jon perks up and brightens at that like a flower in sunlight. He looks _hungry._

“Promise?” he asks, twisting around to look at Martin as much as he can, his eyes wide and dark with wanting. 

“Promise,” Martin lies, heart in his throat. God, he’s too beautiful. It’s terrible. 

Jon takes a deep breath, as if gathering strength. “Fine. Okay.” He tugs at his wrists, still held firmly in Martin’s hands. “You can let go now. I’ll be good.” 

Even when Jon’s really trying to behave, he says stuff that makes Martin want to curl up into a ball and shout into his hands. _I’ll be good._ God. Is that even really sexy, or is he just losing perspective? He lets go of Jon’s wrists. He hopes they don’t bruise. 

A part of him hopes they bruise, a little bit. Not in a way that hurts just… leaving a sweet ache there for him. Pretty colors in the shape of Martin’s fingers on his skin. This is the part of himself that’s enjoying all of this, despite everything. That little thrill of excited arousal that runs through him every time Jon leans in close and _begs_ for Martin to touch him. 

Martin _hates_ that part of himself. 

Jon puts his shirt back on. He drifts towards the door out of Martin’s flat slowly, reluctantly, casting sad, longing looks at Martin’s chest and arms and, worst of all, his _crotch_ as he goes. Martin’s fraying patience snaps before he reaches the door, and he pushes and ushers Jon the rest of the way there. 

“Good luck on your way home,” he says forcefully. “Thank you for not making me throw you out or call someone, that was very nice of you. Get some actual sleep. Be good! See you tomorrow!” 

He closes the door before Jon can respond. He locks the door. He stares at it for a long moment, until he hears retreating footsteps. 

_“What the fuck,”_ he whispers to himself, and pulls at his hair. 

Martin gets that cold shower. 

He’s woken up at an hour that feels far too early for him to be conscious by a text message on his phone. Blearily, he fumbles at it, trying to remember if it’s a weekday or not, if he’s late for work, has there been some sort of development in the case--? 

It’s from Jon. It simply says: _Good morning._

It’s very… formal, very neat and sparse. It would almost seem cool and detached if it weren’t for the fact that it was sent to him at seven AM _exactly,_ to the dot. God, was Jon just _waiting_ to send it to him at the earliest possible point in time that he could justify to himself was reasonable? For how long? 

Martin texts back before he can talk himself out of it: _did you sleep okay??_

The reply is _immediate._

_Yes. Eight hours._

He had told Jon to get some actual sleep, hadn’t he. 

Martin sets his phone down so he can put his face in his hands. His face feels terribly hot. Jon eagerly doing as he’s told-- fucking _damn it._ It’s too early for this. His phone buzzes again, and he gives himself a moment to just whimper and feel a bit pathetic and sorry for himself instead of picking it up. The phone buzzes again before he’s done, impatient and needy. A lot like Jon himself, right now. 

“All right, all _right,”_ he says, picking it up. The new texts are pretty much what he expected: Jon very unsubtly hinting at the fact that Martin had said something about a reward if he was good and did as he was told, and isn’t that what Jon’s done? Can he come over now? Or should Jon stay at his flat, and wait for Martin? More texts appear on the screen as he reads, one of them helpfully containing Jon’s actual _address._

“Nooo,” he whines quietly to himself, putting a hand over his eyes. God, please let him forget he ever saw that. Jon would _not_ be fine with Martin knowing his address. At least, not like this. 

Several more texts appear while he regathers his strength. He decides for the sake of his own sanity not to read them, and instead just interrupts him. 

Jon’s prize is this: they won’t be meeting up at either of their places, but they _will_ be meeting. They always would have, because Martin really can’t leave Jon alone for an entire weekend-- for all he knows, the withdrawal effect is harsher and more devastating each time it happens--but hopefully the promise of Martin’s presence, of time spent with him without Tim or Sasha around, will be enough of a carrot that he calms down a bit and won’t try and break into Martin’s flat or something. 

Jon _enthusiastically_ confirms that he can meet Martin up at the proposed time and place. Martin turns his phone off out of self preservation. 

“Ebay?” Sasha asks, feeling strangely and profoundly disappointed. “You didn’t even buy it on the darkweb? Just… Ebay?” 

“Lots of haunted artefacts can be found there,” the woman says, sounding almost defensive. Sasha tries to not look at the glass cupboard with shelves of Victorian dolls perched inside, like a fine China set. Or the many, many crystals necklaces she’s wearing. “Nonbelievers think that it's all just silly games, so there’s no point in trying to hide it.” 

_“Who_ did you buy it from,” Tim asks intently. He normally turns the charm on for interviews during fieldwork to try and grease the wheels a bit, but that’s completely absent now. He looks very unamused. He blames this woman for the death of the widow’s husband, she recalls. He’s made that more than clear. She just hopes that he doesn’t make it clear to their current only lead as well. At least, not until Sasha’s gotten to ask all of her questions first. 

The woman-- Katherine Vibert-- looks a bit uncomfortable at the way Tim is leaning in towards her from his seat at the couch. Sasha’s sure that he’d be looming even closer if it weren’t for the coffee table separating them. She furtively elbows him in the side, and he reluctantly eases back a bit. Intimidation has its time and place. 

“I don’t really remember their username,” she says. “But I can-- I can look it up. I wasn’t planning on buying from them again, anyways. It didn’t _work.”_

“Didn’t it?” she asks curiously. 

“It was supposed to be a love spell,” she says, a flush rising in her face at the admission. “But instead he just… called in sick, and I never saw him again. I heard he _died._ A heart attack, I think?” 

Hearing how things looked from her perspective is very interesting. 

“You sound real broken up about it,” Tim says darkly. Vibert gives him a startled look, and Sasha cuts in. 

“Do you think it would’ve worked if he hadn’t gotten sick?” she asks. 

“I--” she starts. 

“Or that he got sick _because_ you gave him that rose?” Tim says. He sounds hostile, bristling for an argument. “You didn’t think of that at all? He’s perfectly healthy one day, then you give him something you _know_ isn’t natural, and he’s dead less than a week later. That didn’t strike you as weird?” 

Vibert is very wide eyed now, but it’s quickly overtaken by a scowl. “I sensed no malicious energies from it,” she says curtly, and Tim snorts derisively. 

“Oh, so it’s definitely not your fault then, no matter how suspicious it looks. You read its _aura,_ after all. Convenient. So you’re just the woman who tried to curse a married guy into falling for you, then, not a murderer. That’s great.” 

_“Tim,”_ she says. She hasn’t even gotten the _username_ yet-- 

“Out,” Vibert says, looking pale and furious. “I don’t need any of this negative energy-- _baseless_ accusations--” 

Tim stands up. He’s a tall guy, broad shoulders. Katherine Vibert is _not_ a tall woman. Sasha hadn’t realized until now that Tim could look _frightening._ Not that she is. Frightened, that is. He’s not even looking at her. Vibert, however, seems to be trying to become one with her armchair with how desperately she’s leaning back against it now, away from Tim who leans in to loom more. 

“Not yet,” Tim grits out. 

They get the username. Vibert fumbles for her phone, and digs it up from some junk folder recording the purchase. Sasha writes it down and grabs Tim’s arm and starts pulling him after her out of Vibert’s home. 

“Thanks for the help,” she says. She’s not used to having to be the one who smooths things over, but Tim’s clearly not in the mood for it. He’s still glaring at Vibert, even as she pulls him along. “Really helpful of you! That should be all, bye.” 

Once they get out, Sasha hears the distinct sound of a lock clicking firmly shut behind them, which is fair enough. She’s pretty damned grateful for Tim’s suggestion that they not introduce themselves as Tim Stoker and Sasha James from the Magnus Institute, and instead just Tim and Sasha, local supernatural enthusiasts. Not that they’d really _done_ anything, but… 

“What the hell was that?” she asks Tim as they create some distance between themselves and Vibert’s home. She stops casting glances behind her shoulder to look at him. He’s got his shoulders hunched and his hands jammed into his pockets. 

“Had to get the info out of her,” he says, scowling, not looking at her. 

“I thought we were doing a pretty good job of that before you went all aggro on her,” she says. “In fact, you almost _cost_ us finding the info. Tim, what’s going on?” 

This isn’t like him. Tim’s not threatening. He knows he’s tall, that he’s fit. He’s not blind, or stupid. She’s seen him go out of his way to flash people a reassuring grin, to not loom in their space, to not raise his voice. He doesn’t like scaring people, especially for no good reason. 

“Someone’s dead because of her,” he says roughly. “And she’s going to completely get away with it. She doesn’t even have to admit to herself that it was _her fault.”_

His voice is venomous, seething. She’s never seen him feel so strongly about something, not in this furious way. And it’s over a complete stranger. 

She doesn’t get it. Sure, Vibert’s actions had led to a man dying, but… how had she been supposed to know? Sasha didn’t even think that Vibert had thought that the rose would work in the way its seller claimed it would, either. Nor the dolls, or the crystals. It’s like kids playing with an ouija board. Just playing a silly game of pretend, acting and even telling themselves that they believed it was real, but deep down, they didn’t really believe in it for a moment. Otherwise, they wouldn’t play in the first place. Otherwise, Vibert wouldn’t have an entire closet of ‘haunted dolls’ in her living room. 

For those not in the know, the supernatural is just a harmless, fake hobby. Like believing in aliens, or learning all of the lore of a fantasy world. It’s just an escape from the real world, a consequence free way to fool oneself into thinking that the world is magical. 

The world is magical though. In the worst way possible. How are people like Vibert supposed to know? A man is dead because of her, but Sasha _still_ can’t really take her seriously. She’s just a kook playing around who accidentally stumbled across something real, thinking that it was just another toy. Manslaughter, basically. If anything, she feels a bit sorry for her. 

She watches as Tim clenches his jaw and silently fumes, and feels like maybe none of that would be helpful to say. He, apparently, has decided to hold Vibert _fully_ accountable for what’s happened. He feels very, very strongly about it. She wishes she knew why. 

“Are you going to be like this for all of the interviews?” she asks. “Because a lot of them are likely going to be with rapists, and Vibert probably isn’t the only one involved in this case who caused a death.” 

“I know,” he says, clipped. 

“I didn’t mind you insisting on coming along,” she says, and it’s true. The supernatural _is_ dangerous. She can see the sense in having a buddy system, even if she doesn’t think that it’s _quite_ as dire in this case as Tim clearly does. They already have the artefact that they’re investigating, and all that’s left is regular people. Sometimes traumatized, sometimes kinda or pretty shitty. Nothing she hasn’t dealt with before. What she _had_ minded was being kept from looking into the case entirely, which is just-- it’s not acceptable. This is _important._ They have to solve this as quickly as possible. “But if you're going to sabotage these interviews because you can’t hide how disgusted you are for half an hour then I’m going to _have_ to do this alone, no matter how little you like it.” 

“I know,” he says, still just as tense as before. She can’t help but feel like she hasn’t reached him, hasn’t convinced him of anything, despite his agreement. 

“I mean it, Tim,” she says, trying to convey with her voice just how serious she is. “I’ve been listening to you so far because you’re my friend, and you’ve got a bit of a point. But fixing Jon as soon as possible is the main priority right now, and if you get in the way--” 

“I know!” he snaps. “I know it’s important, I know I was stupid back there, it’s just-- she just--” 

His entire body is coiled up and tense with barely restrained anger, but his eyes are shiny and bright, she realizes with a bit of panic. She’s bad at dealing with tears. She’s done it for Tim before, a couple of times. A long hug had been all she’d been able to think of, both times. It seemed to help him at the time, as far as she could tell, but she’d still been left feeling like she’d offered him so very little. 

“It’s not really the same situation,” he says, and he sounds so _tired_ all of a sudden. Tired and vulnerable. “I just… can’t stop thinking about Danny for some reason. It all-- it all reminds me of him.” 

“Oh,” she says. His weak spot. He needs her, when he gets hit right in his weak spot. 

Taking his arm, she pulls him towards the first bench she sees. It’s too early in the day on a Saturday for there to be a lot of people out, especially in a place that’s more for townhouses than shops. They’ve got some privacy. She makes him sit down. 

“... Want to talk about it?” she asks eventually. She’s been trying to puzzle out how this situation relates to Danny, and all she can come up with is ‘supernatural fuckery’ and ‘someone died.’ Feels a bit thin. However, she’s pretty sure that this is the most thoroughly Tim’s been embroiled in something actively supernatural since his brother’s death. So maybe this _is_ enough to remind him too keenly of that night. 

He laughs, but not in a good way. “Not really,” he says. “I don’t want for any of this to be happening at all.” 

“Yeah,” she agrees. It’s all she can think to say. Stuff like this is so much harder than… hacking into a database and stringing together dates and events and coming up with theories and researching. Feelings. No firm and easy answers. She just sort of has to muddle her way through, doing her best along the way. She doesn’t like that feeling, of not knowing what the correct answer is and having _no_ way of figuring out what it is and having to just blindly guess. 

Fuck, but Tim’s her friend. She’ll do it for him. 

“I wish I could figure out how to fix Jon,” she offers. That’s helpful, right? Sharing, showing vulnerability, honesty? Encouraging him to maybe do the same. Or is it a derailment? Is she stealing the focus of the conversation? She stomps down on all of that second guessing. It’s not helpful. She has to pick an approach and commit to it. If it turns out she chose wrong she… she’ll just have to fix that later, when it comes to it. If it comes to it. 

That hollow laugh again. “I wish he’d never gotten like this in the first place,” he says. “It’s-- he just got changed like it was nothing, all in one moment while I had my back turned. I went in to see him after Ennulat left his office. _Right_ after. He seemed fine. How was I supposed to know? How was I supposed to stop it?” 

“None of us could’ve known,” she says. “None of us could’ve stopped it. Or known that there was anything to stop in the first place. There weren’t any signs.” 

His face twists, and she’s not sure if she’s made things better or worse. She hopes it wasn’t the latter. She wants to make things _better,_ to find solutions to difficult problems and fix complicated issues that others can’t figure out. 

“It’s not right. It’s his-- his _self._ People shouldn’t be able to shove their fingers into that and twist it into whatever shape they want.” 

There’s a feeling Sasha gets sometimes, when she tilts her head and _finally_ figures out a problem that she’s been glaring and pecking at for hours and hours. Looking at it from a different angle and watching all just fall into place and align and start to make _sense._ The feeling, it’s like this pleasurable little tingle that rushes from her skull down her spine, like an almost tangible dopamine hit as a reward for understanding something. It’s her favorite feeling in the world. 

She gets that wonderful little rush down her spine from her skull right then, as dots connect in her head and start to make sense. Step away from all of the messy, fascinating details, and look at the situation more abstractly. Having someone he cared about be fundamentally changed against their will while he wasn’t looking. Looking at it that way, of _course_ it all reminds him of Danny. The interview with the grieving widow wasn’t what started it, it just hammered it in. 

_“Oh,”_ she says, and Tim looks at her, and she realizes that she’s smiling which is, uh, probably not appropriate, yeah. “Sorry, I-- yeah, it really sucks. This whole situation sucks.” 

Her mind races as she fits this newly discovered context to the conversation, to Tim’s behaviour in general. What it tells her, what the best course of action would be now that she actually has some data to inform her decision making. 

“It _really_ sucks,” she says. “It never should’ve happened in the first place, but Tim. We _are_ going to fix this. We _know_ that people can recover from this, they can get their old selves back. It’s just that it takes satisfying the curse for that to happen, as far as we’re aware. We’re looking for an alternative, for a trick or a third option or a loophole or _something_ that can let us fix Jon without having to do that, but… it might not exist. There might not be a third option. And if we find that out then-- well, we’re going to have to let the curse have what it wants. Which is also going to suck _really_ fucking badly, but we’ll get Jon back. He’ll be okay, eventually. Okay? No matter what happens, if we find a better solution or not, Jon is going to be himself again. He’s not going to be just stuck like this forever. That’s inevitable. That’s a _guarantee.”_

She looks into his eyes, willing for her conviction to be hammered into him through sheer intensity. She grabbed his hand at some point, she realizes distantly. 

She hasn’t really imparted any new information onto him, but he looks at her with wide eyes. It’s an improvement on the tight, sharp anger he’d barely been able to hold onto, or the exhausted, raw looking grief. 

“I-- yeah,” he says. “I know.” 

“I know you do,” she says. “Just… just in case you were losing perspective, and starting to think of this whole case as some sort of deeply dire thing that we _have_ to succeed at, or else the true essence of Jon is lost forever. That’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself, is all. I mean, the stakes _are_ much higher than usual, but it’s still not quite life or death.” 

“No,” he says. “No, you’re right, I was-- I was kind of thinking of this as a ‘I have to be able to solve this, or else Jon’s fucked’ kind of deal.” 

“Well,” she says, and tries to bite back a smirk. “I mean.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

“You’re right,” she says, making herself purse her lips. “It’s a horrible, callous, tasteless, insensitive joke, which doesn’t make it funnier at all.” 

“You’re a terrible person. Awful.” Belying his words, Tim does look more at ease now than when they’d first sat down. Not happy, really, he still looks kind of stressed and tired and upset-- but all of that’s reasonable, considering. They’re in a rough situation right now, there’s no two ways about it. The only way out is through. She’s just glad that he’s not seemingly on the verge of a meltdown any longer. 

“I wear it well,” she says. “Anyways, going back a bit… I know you’re not trying to get in the way on purpose or anything, but if you can’t promise me that you’ll definitely be able to hold onto your temper around people like Vibert--” 

“Don’t go to interviews with people like that alone,” he says. He doesn’t sound like he’s giving her an order so much as he’s pleading with her. “Please. I won’t either.” 

She decides not to mention that she was already reconsidering her stance with how okay she is with Tim doing solo interviews himself right now, considering how… _not okay_ he currently is. So if he’s not fine with her doing solo interviews either, if for different reasons, then that’s fair enough. 

“I mean, I could arrange more public meetings with them? Like in cafes. Which is a good idea actually-- getting sidetracked. But no, I was thinking-- what if you just… stand out in a hallway or something? Out of the room, while I interview the latest lead. I can scream if I need you or something.” 

Tim barks a surprised laugh at that. She smiles at the sound of it. He’s looking more and more like himself by the moment. 

“Seriously?” he asks, amused. 

She holds her hand up defensively, but she’s still grinning. “I mean it! I know it sounds a bit, I don’t know, goofy, but it’s the logical solution! I’ll get to do the interviews, you get to be around in case there’s danger, and you can’t lose your temper and end up shouting at a lead before I’m done with them.” 

“Oh, the _logical solution,”_ he says. “In that case I’m all in, Ms. James. Who am I to disagree with logic?” 

“Okay, I know I _might_ use that phrase a bit too much, but how sarcastic is this sarcasm? Do you want to try it out or what?” 

He looks at her. Looks down at their hands, which she realizes are still holding onto each other. Woops. Forgot about that. She lets go of his hand. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay, I’ll try it out.” 

“All I wanted to hear,” she says, with great satisfaction. One small problem solved, on the way to fixing the much bigger, messier one. They can do this. 

She can do this. 

Martin is supposed to meet Jon at a cafe. 

He hasn’t really had much chance to really _explore_ London since he moved here, even though he’s lived here for over a decade by now. It’s so easy to get stuck in a routine. Go to work, go get some food at a place he already knows makes decent stuff, too tired to take any risks. Get home, exhausted from work. Think about eating out, then think about his bank account and reconsider. Don’t really go out during the weekends, because who would he go out with? 

That makes it sound like he hasn’t left his flat for anything but groceries or work for the last ten years, which really isn’t true. He’s been places, he’s tried to be adventurous and have fun, and sometimes he’s even succeeded. It’s just that the safe routine is his default. He’s not like Tim who likes to find new fun clubs every other weekend, or Sasha who seems to know about every incredible but niche hole in the wall in the whole city. 

The point is, he doesn’t really have some sort of cool, undiscovered place to show and share with Jon, and he suddenly kind of desperately wishes that he did. Which is dumb. It’s not like Jon’s going to care about or even notice the place they’re meeting at. Martin’s pretty sure he could arrange for a meeting by a dumpster in an alleyway, and Jon would still be enthusiastically for it. Maybe even more so, considering the sordid sort of stuff associated with dark alleys. Jon seems _really_ fixated on the idea of Martin fucking him up against a wall. 

God, no, focus. He’s got a date at a boring chain franchise cafe that does consistently decent drinks and pastries to get to. A not-date. _Definitely_ not a date. This is a… strategic meeting, to keep Jon from dying for curse related reasons, with the location carefully chosen in the hopes that it’ll make Jon practice some restraint. He doesn’t try to _do_ stuff to Martin when other people are around. Even Jon as he is right now has that limit, which, thank god. It’s fine. It’s going to be fine. 

He’s just going to drink something overpriced with his boss that he has a crush on who has a supernaturally inflicted crush back on him. _Nothing_ weird about that. He has this situation under control, definitely. 

A little bit desperately, he shoots a text at Tim while on the tube, asking about any progress on the case. 

He knows that he’s not as good at the whole _research_ part of this job as them, that he’s the only one who can make sure that Jon doesn’t go into curse induced withdrawal, that he’s distracted right now and already feeling exhausted as is, that Tim and Sasha spearheading the investigation like this is _optimal_ and _efficient_ and _probably for the best,_ but-- fuck, what he wouldn’t give to be able to feel like he’s chipping away at this problem too, making progress, trying to fix things. Instead, he feels like he’s stuck in place trying to hold a door shut while Tim and Sasha run on ahead to go and get some actual work done. 

But Tim and Sasha _can’t_ run ahead and get work done if Martin isn’t here, holding the door shut. They need to be able to trust that he’s keeping Jon safe and okay so they can focus on the case. They’d _tried_ it the other way, Tim and Sasha at the office with Jon and Martin knocking at Mrs. Ennulat’s door for follow up questions, safely out of sight and mind of Jon so he couldn’t make him-- _act_ like that, driving him to irrationality with only his presence. And it hadn’t worked. It can’t work. Martin needs to be the one who looks after Jon while he’s not himself. There’s no other choice. 

It doesn’t feel like he’s doing anything at all to help, but he has to remind himself of that. He _is_ helping, even if it doesn’t feel like it. Tim and Sasha wouldn’t be able to leave Jon alone and work on the case if Martin wasn’t here to look after him. Someone has to hold the door shut while the others run forwards. Forwards progress towards the goal, the solution, is being made for the group as a whole, even as it feels like he’s stuck in place. Remember that. 

Tim sends him a thumbs up emoji, which Martin decides probably means ‘progress is being made, but no concrete solution found yet.’ Because really, if _that_ doesn’t merit a phone call, nothing does. 

Martin gets to the cafe. He’s a little bit early, which is only polite. He really shouldn’t be surprised to see Jon already there, waiting for him. He’s frowning and scanning the crowds, presumably keeping an eye out for him, not having spotted him yet. Martin wonders how long he’s been standing there. The idea of Jon impatiently getting to the cafe as soon as he got the location and just _waiting_ for him-- it’s terribly plausible, and also just kind of terrible. Familiar guilt twinges in his chest, and he waves at Jon, catching his eye. 

Jon spots him, and lights up as soon as he sees him, immediately moving towards him in a straight line, seemingly having forgotten that the rest of the world exists. People have to move out of the way for him. 

“Hello, Martin,” he says. “Where are we going? What are we doing?” 

“Uh, h-- hi Jon. I think-- we’re just going to be in this cafe for a bit first.” 

Jon looks over at the cafe they’re standing in front of with a skeptical frown. “I went in there for a bit while I was waiting, and the restroom isn’t particularly private,” he says. “It’s the sort with stalls. Cramped.” 

Martin stubbornly refuses to acknowledge why Jon’s talking about how cramped and public the restroom is and why he thinks that that’s relevant. 

“We’ll get something to eat,” he says with forced cheerfulness. “Haven’t had breakfast yet! Come on.” 

“Breakfast,” Jon repeats, like it’s some sort of distasteful disappointment. 

“Did you-- you haven’t eaten yet either today, have you.” He’s lost count of how many times he’s watched Jon just stay in his office the whole day through, not leaving to go and get lunch in the canteen or one of the nearby delis or even to go and fetch a saran wrapped sandwich from the fridge in the breakroom. Jon treats his bodily needs like they’re optional, something that can be ignored and put off until later when he’s less busy. And with how preoccupied he is with Martin right now, it’d make sense for him to be even more forgetful and distracted when it comes to _necessary things_ like _taking care_ of himself. 

“No, I don’t believe so,” he says, following Martin as he walks into the cafe, his arm brushing his with how close he sticks to him. “--oh, should I have? To keep my energy up, of course.” 

_To keep his energy up._ That would be a nice thing to hear Jon say in _any_ other time or context. He really, really cannot take listening to Jon talk about fucking Martin like it’s some sort of intense marathon he should prepare for. 

“You should be eating breakfast every day, no matter what you’re-- what you’re planning on doing that day,” he says, trying for stern and landing somewhere in mortified. They reach the counter. “What do you want?” 

Jon casts a brief, disinterested look onto the various pastries and sandwiches arranged behind the transparent glass. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“Right,” Martin says, and gives up and just orders for him. A club sandwich and an iced coffee that looks more like a desert for himself because he might as well splurge a bit if he’s already eating out, and a cheese and ham sandwich and green tea for Jon, since it seems filling and he already knows that Jon likes that type of tea. He pays it all himself instead of asking to split the bill with Jon, since honestly, this is the _least_ he can do for him considering the whole… situation. Jon doesn’t seem to notice, too preoccupied with Martin himself. 

They pick a table to sit down and eat at. Jon looks with dissatisfaction at the other half dozen people inside of the cafe, and the broad glass windows that let anyone on the street plainly see them. Martin guesses that he was picturing something more private for their meeting. He stubbornly eats his sandwich and sips at the ungainly frosting monstrosity he’s bought instead of thinking about that. He’s here to give Jon a hit of his presence, and that’s that. Nothing more, nothing less. 

By the time he’s done with his sandwich, Jon has begun sullenly nibbling at his. Martin focuses on his drink. 

“... How is this a reward?” Jon says, breaching the silence between them. 

Damn it, Martin was hoping that he wouldn’t pick up on that. “You wanted to meet with me, didn’t you?” 

“I do that every day. I want for you to _fuck_ me.” 

At this point, Martin’s getting pretty used to Jon saying stuff like that. He only belatedly realizes that he’d said that at regular speaking volume in a cafe, in _public,_ where other people who _don’t understand_ are. He looks around in a quick moment of panicked furtiveness, but no one seems to be staring at them. No one noticed, he thinks. Hopes. 

“Jon, other people are around,” he hisses at him, leaning forward and lowering his own volume, hoping that Jon might follow his example. 

“I know, it’s very annoying,” he says, peeved. “We were alone together yesterday. Why have you taken us here? What can we even do here?” 

_Nothing, which is the point._ But obviously that’s not an answer that Jon’s going to accept. 

Jon looks like he’s gearing up to pitch a fit, the way he’d used to do when Martin would mess up and make a mistake, like spilling a drink on an important file. He raises his voice sometimes when that happens, angry and scolding and _loud._ Martin really, really doesn’t want to let that happen here, surrounded by strangers. 

“What do you like about me?” Martin asks, the first thing that comes to mind to try and distract him. He flushes a moment later as he realizes what he’s asked. That-- that’s so _embarrassingly_ self indulgent. And he already knows the answer. Nothing. It’s just the rose that makes Jon think he likes anything about him at all. He doesn’t want to sit here and watch as Jon’s face fogs over with confusion and incomprehension as he can’t think of a single good thing to say about the man that he’s so obsessed with. 

… Then again, that might be a good idea, actually. They’ve _tried_ to get through to Jon with logic, pointing out to him how his sudden feelings for Martin make zero sense. It hadn’t worked, of course. But maybe this might? It could be worth a shot, even if it’ll hurt to see. Martin’s willing to try anything at this point, if it would just get Jon back to normal, that doesn’t include hurting him. 

“I-- is _that_ the problem?” Jon asks, looking baffled. “Martin. I really do like you. I don’t see how you could’ve gotten it into your head that my desires are anything but sincere.” 

“Then _what,_ specifically, do you like about me?” he challenges him. “You should be able to name a-- a quality or a trait about me that’s appealing to you, right? A single thing.” 

Jon narrows his eyes at him. “I can.” 

“Go on, then,” he says, crossing his arms. 

“Right,” he says, and clears his throat slightly, reminding Martin keenly of every single depiction of a professor about to launch into a lecture that he’s ever seen on a screen. Jon starts counting off on his fingers as he begins listing things. “Your hands, which are broad and slot around my hips perfectly. They’d feel _amazing_ inside of me, just saying. Your arms, which are strong and could carry and maneuver me effortlessly. Your cock, which is… the best thing in the world, really. Your--” 

Martin prays to a god that he doesn’t believe in any longer as Jon keeps going, praising every single part of his body that he can think of. Of course. Of course it’d be like this, shallow and crass and lustful. And here he was, thinking that he’d been clever enough to actually find some sort of loophole. 

“--and your tea,” Jon goes on. 

“My _tea?”_ Martin asks, cutting Jon off in the middle of his diatribe about how obviously desirable Martin is. “Your favorite things about me are my dick and the way I make _tea?”_

For a moment, Jon actually looks a bit embarrassed, in a huffy and defensive sort of way. Martin hadn’t thought that he was still _capable_ of being embarrassed. 

“Well, yes! You make good tea. Better than _this_ swill, anyways,” he says, along with a disdainful look at the cup sat by his elbow that Martin belatedly realizes that he’s barely touched, now that he thinks about it. 

_Swill,_ Martin mouths to himself, a fond, incredulous smile tugging at his lips. He loves it when Jon just _says_ stuff like that, like he’s from an entirely different century. 

“You like green tea,” he points out. 

“They made it wrong,” he huffs. “Anyways, I wasn’t done. Where was I? Your hands--” 

“You’ve already gone over my hands.” 

“I’m sure I haven’t gone over all of the things they could do to me, though. But fine, let’s see… oh, your height. I like that. I like how much _bigger_ than me you are. I like your teeth, they’re good teeth. They would feel wonderful digging into me. Just enough to leave bruises, of course. Unless you wanted more. You can have as much of me as you want, Martin, you should know that. And you’re so good at remembering or noticing small things.” 

“Excuse me?” he asks, once again knocked out of embarrassed silence. “I’m good at _remembering_ things? That’s one of the main things that you get mad at me about, Jon. I keep forgetting things.” 

“Not like that,” he says along with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You’re good at remembering things about _people._ Birthdays, likes and dislikes. Names and faces, even. I’ve never been good at any of that stuff. It’s not useful for work, but it _is_ admirable, in a way. It shows that you pay attention to people. That you care.” 

That’s-- oh. Oh. Martin’s hands tighten around his cup of coffee, and his chest _aches._ He was right. This does hurt. Not for the reasons he thought it would, but it hurts. All of the things about his hands, his arms and shoulders, that had all been so vain and easy to dismiss. But now Jon’s talking about… softer things. Things that sound more real, like things that Jon might actually really think about him. He _wants_ to think that it’s real, something genuine slipping into the stream of unfiltered artificial lust. He wants it so badly. 

But it’s not real. Can’t be. Nope. This is just more of the same, the curse trying to shove everything he wants right underneath his nose, begging him to just cave in and take it already. 

His crush on Jon has been pretty… shallow. Just a-- a bit of an aesthetic appreciation, really, mixed along with a frustrating desire to make him just slow down and eat and take a break already, born from watching someone not take care of themselves right in front of him and having to swallow back the insistent itch in his fingers to take care of a problem that he has to see every single day. Some fondness for a handful of kind of endearing tendencies. That’s all it was. A crush. Nothing _serious._ He hasn’t known Jon for long. He doesn’t want to-- to marry him and adopt nine children with him or something. He just… 

It’s just a nice daydream, the idea of fucking him and taking care of him, and Jon actually _liking_ that, appreciating it. But now the curse is trying to dangle something _more_ in front of him. Something deeper, something that he wants so much that it makes his eyes prickle and sting a bit from the knowledge that it’s just a cruel trick. 

People don’t get feelings for _Martin._ He’s-- he’s an alright friend to have, but he’s never someone’s most special person. He’s never important. 

God, what’s wrong with him? Jon says _one_ thing to him that sounds halfway genuinely kind and he’s letting it completely get to him. He has to get a hold of himself. He clears his throat, and drinks some of his frappe thing. There’s just the dregs left, a melty mess that’s sort of unpleasant to swallow. 

“And your--” 

“You can stop listing things now,” he interrupts him. If Jon keeps going, Martin’s liable to break. He feels fragile, all of a sudden. Tired. Being around Jon has become so-- so _overwhelming,_ lately. 

“So do you believe me then?” Jon asks him keenly. “That I really like you.” 

“Yes,” Martin lies. He can’t take any more of Jon earnestly trying to prove something that just isn’t real. 

“Oh,” Jon says, and smiles. “Good.” 

“You should eat the rest of your sandwich,” Martin prods him. 

“The-- oh _, fine._ Fine.” Jon finishes his sandwich a bit grumpily, like a kid being forced to eat his greens. When he’s done, he licks his lips, and Martin averts his eyes. He’s pretty sure that that one wasn’t even on purpose. All of Jon’s attempts at flirtation have been… not subtle. 

Martin yelps and drops his cup. It clatters loudly onto the table, a bit of coffee spilling out onto the surface. 

_“What--”_

Everyone is staring at them. Martin bites his tongue, and then shoots the room a smile so forced it feels more like a grimace. “S-- sorry, I’ll get it, I’ll clean it up myself.” 

He grabs a handful of napkins from a holder on the table and starts mopping up the spilled coffee on the table. With his other hand, he hopefully _subtly_ reaches underneath the table and grabs Jon’s ankle. He physically moves it, so his foot is no longer _pressing up against his crotch._

“Not in front of other people,” he hisses at Jon, face hot with anger or mortification of horror, he isn’t sure. 

“I don’t think anyone noticed,” Jon whispers. “I saw it on TV once, it’s supposed to be sneaky.” 

_“It was not sneaky.”_

“Well yes, because you made a noise.” 

“You should have warned me! _Put your shoe back on,_ we’re leaving.” 

Jon brightens. “To your place or mine? I believe mine’s closer, so--” 

Martin shoves the soggy napkins into his used coffee cup, and shoots glances towards the rest of the room, trying to see if any of them had noticed what really just happened. There’s still people looking at them a bit, but that might just be because of that ridiculous sound Martin made-- oh god, wait. That woman, the one sitting the closest to them. She looks _scandalized._

“--won’t be able to walk straight the next day,” Jon is saying, and Martin realizes with horror that he’s drifted back towards a regular speaking volume while Martin wasn’t paying attention, and now that people are paying attention to them, that’s a real problem. 

“Please stop talking,” he begs him, and grabs Jon’s wrist. He stands up and starts fleeing from the coffee shop. 

“Oh, yes,” Jon says, sounding terribly pleased to be dragged anywhere by Martin. 

He can _never ever_ return to this place. 

Tim opens the door to Sasha’s flat to the sight of a _really_ tired looking Martin. He’d called ahead, so this isn’t a surprise, but wow, he looks even worse than he’d sounded over the phone. 

“Long day?” he asks him sympathetically. 

Martin groans wordlessly. Tim lets the poor thing inside. 

“There’s like three places I can never show my face at again,” he says. “Jon too. Oh god, Jon. I shouldn’t have done the public date thing, it was a terrible idea. He-- he _really_ humiliated himself. He kept _saying_ stuff and forgetting to talk about it quietly. And he managed to get within grabbing range and cop of a feel of my _arse_ once-- god. And he was _really_ unhappy when the day ended with, well, you know.” 

“A chaste kiss on the doorstep?” he asks, wincing a bit despite the joke. 

“Not even that much. God, I thought he was going to _cry_ with sheer frustration. I have to figure out something different for Sunday. Please tell me you and Sasha made some progress? Please.” 

“Interviews were definitely had. Come on, we’ve got notes in the living room.” 

Tim leads Martin to the living room, who predictably stops walking to just stare at the chaos for a moment. Tim’s grateful that they’re doing this over at Sasha’s place instead of his own. He doesn’t envy her for when she’s going to have to clean this up. 

“Wow,” says Martin. “I-- I see you guys have gone full red string theory board here.” 

It’s not even much of an exaggeration. They’d started out with files and notes on Sasha’s coffee table, and then it had migrated onto the couch, the floor, and then Sasha had started taping pieces of paper up on the wall so she could keep her eye on them all at all times without losing track of them. There’s brightly colored sticky notes tacked onto various papers to keep them in some sort of category that Tim doesn’t entirely understand. Sasha’s laptop is open on the coffee table, but she isn’t looking at it. She has her elbows planted on the table, and her face resting in her hands in a posture of abject defeat and exhaustion. 

“Martinnnn,” Sasha says, not looking up. “Martin, make me tea. Please.” 

Tim can’t help but laugh at her a bit, even if he feels just as tired as her, and he’s pouring over some really dark stuff for the last few hours. 

“I-- yeah, of course,” Martin says, and bustles into the kitchen. There’s just a counter that divides it from the living room, so he can still comfortably speak with them while he peeks into Sasha’s cupboards, searching for teabags. “So, anything new? Why do you look so, um, down?” 

“Her pet theory got debunked,” says Tim, sitting on a spot of the couch that’s mostly free from paper. 

“It was a good theory,” she sulks. 

“And a wrong one, turns out. Sorry.” 

“What was her favorite theory? That the victim wants to sleep with the person they like the least?” 

“I-- _Sash,”_ Tim says. “You told him about that one?” 

“No!” she says, looking up from the mournful cradle of her own hands for the first time in over five minutes, frowning indignantly. Her face flickers over into uncertainty. “... Did I?” 

“No, you didn’t,” Martin assures her. “I just guessed. I mean, Jon arbitrarily fell for _me_ instead of either of you, or anyone else. The-- the only thing special about me is that Jon thinks I’m the most annoying person on earth. Right?” 

God, it sounds really bad when he just lays it out like that. Sasha apparently thinks so too, because her mouth is twisted into an uncomfortable line. 

“Well, like I said, that theory’s been debunked anyways,” Tim says forcefully. “We followed the rose’s trail for a couple more people until we came to this-- well, _extra_ messed up situation. Everything about this artefact’s messed up, but you know. Even more so.” 

“A victim was made to sleep with their best friend,” Sasha says. “We confirmed with both of them and some other people in their life, and they all confirmed that the two of them have been good friends to each other for years now. They really liked each other, in other words.” 

“That doesn’t sound so-- well, not _extra_ bad,” Martin says, casting a questioning look at Tim. 

“The best friend didn’t give the victim the rose,” Tim says. “The best friend was pretty shocked and hesitant, but the victim was stronger than them, so…” 

“Oh,” Martin says, and winces. Tim grimaces back at him. Somehow, mutual rape instead of just regular rape feels even worse. Not enough for one person to be violated, both of them were. 

He’s grateful, _very_ grateful, that Martin is unquestionably stronger than Jon. This situation is difficult enough to control without having to deal with _that_ complication as well. 

Sasha takes off her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Until now, we’ve only had targets that the victim was disinterested in, or even actively disliked. But the victim who slept with their best friend really liked them-- still likes them, even! They’ve reconciled! What the fuck is the pattern? Is it random? Is it fucking random, Tim? If it is, I’m going to find a way to destroy that rose, I swear to god.” 

Martin makes an interested noise. “That’s an idea. The curse might be broken if we just find a way to destroy it.” 

Tim pats Sasha’s shoulder consolingly, and tries to give the idle idea serious thought. “That might work,” he says slowly. “But according to Mrs. Ennulat, it’s virtually indestructible. She said so in her Statement, she tried a lot of things and didn’t even manage to so much as scratch it.” 

“How about magical damage?” Martin suggests. “Use something from Artefact Storage to hurt it.” 

Sasha goes stiff. “Experimenting with supernatural artefacts is highly inadvisable,” she says, and it almost sounds like she’s quoting something. An Artefact Storage guidebook, maybe. She says it with as much conviction as he’s heard some people quote bible passages at him. 

“But--” 

“It could backfire,” Tim says, because Sasha looks like she’s getting even tenser. “Make things worse somehow. Hurt Jon, or make the effects more intense. And you know, handling the rose at all is kind of a big risk. One of us could prick ourselves on the thorns, and then we’d have _two_ people to wrangle. We’re barely managing Jon as it is, even though we outnumber him three to one. Two versus two is just… ugh, no.” 

“Yes,” Sasha says instantly. “Yes, exactly. It’s too dangerous. We have to avoid handling the artefact itself as much as possible.”

Martin puts his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. We keep doing what we’re already doing, then? Follow the trail, see if anyone else managed to figure out a third option? Try and see if we get enough samples to figure something new out?” 

“Right,” she says with a firm nod. “We’ll figure something out eventually, if we keep going as we are.” 

“And… what if there’s nothing _to_ figure out?” Martin asks warily. 

“Then… then that’s still something that we’ve figured out,” she says. “Necessary information.” 

“But if that’s the case, how do we know when we’re done? How long are we going to keep this up before we stop and decide that we’re not going to be getting anything more out of this investigation?” Martin’s frowning, looking like he very much doesn’t like any of the questions he’s asking. Tim doesn’t like them either. But they have to be asked, don’t they. They can’t just keep this up forever. Can’t just keep Jon the way he is forever. If there really isn’t a third option, then they’re never going to be handed concrete proof of that one day. They’ll just have to give up and accept it on their own. 

Sasha bites at her lower lip for a long moment, before she answers. “We keep going until we reach a deadend. I know we’ve been making a lot of rapid progress this week so far, but it’s going to start dramatically slowing down soon, I bet. We’re already talking to people who had all of this happen to them over a year ago. Soon we won’t be able to find the next link in the chain, we won’t be able to keep following the trail. If at the end of that we still don’t have an answer, then… we’re not going to find it, if it exists at all.” 

There’s a long, heavy moment of silence after that. They’ve got a deadline now, even if none of them know when it’s going to happen. If they don’t have this figured out by then… then Martin’s going to have to do what needs to be done to fix Jon. 

God, Tim hates this. His _stomach_ fucking hurts just thinking about it. 

“I--” Martin says, and then the kettle starts to shriek. “Oh, excuse me,” he says, and fumbles to find mugs, milk and sugar. 

Tim lets out a deep breath, trying to let the moment be broken. He’s not going to make it through this, if he lets himself feel the full weight of it for every single moment. His talk with Sasha reminded him of that. 

Standing out in the hall while Sasha had talked to the leads had… well, it had earned him some strange looks, but it really had worked. It had helped, at least. Listening to multiple people shut down and go flat and numb, or be moved to tears while recounting one of the worst days of their lives, or watching someone bluster and go red faced and defensive over something terrible-- it got to him. He can’t be like Sasha, he can’t take a step back and just look at it all as some sort of logic puzzle to figure out. Those are _people,_ real people, and the things they say and the tears they spill stick to him, they rattle around in his head for hours and days afterwards. He wishes he could stop dwelling on it all, but that’s easier said than done. 

He’s still thinking about what the neighbour had said to him, the way he’d shown only fear for himself and not a speck of guilt for what he did. The way the widow’s face had gone pale and hurt as soon as he said her husband’s name, like he’d punched her in the gut. The way the coworker refused to accept that she had anything to do with that man’s death. 

But he’s not thinking about the victim that was forced to rape their own best friend. Not as deeply, not in a way that he’s afraid is going to stain him for the rest of his life. Because he wasn’t there, in that room with them while Sasha talked to them. He didn’t have to look anyone in the eye. It’s the difference between hearing about a car accident in the news, and seeing it happen right in front of you. It still happened, it’s still terrible, but… he can deal better. 

And the situation with Jon is like being _in_ the car while the accident is happening, strapped into the backseat and watching in horror as the front of the car crumples inwards to crush the driver. 

“Spoonful of honey, right?” Martin asks, and Tim blinks. He’s holding out a fresh, steaming mug of tea in front of him. 

“I-- yeah.” He takes the mug. It warms his hands, helps him feel more grounded in his body. He shoots Martin a tired, grateful crooked smile. “Sorry, zoned out for a moment there.” 

“It’s alright,” Martin says, and he smiles in a way that makes Tim think that he really does understand. Martin clears a space for himself on the couch, and sits down as well. “So, what else have we found? You said you found multiple new links, right? Tell me about them.” 

They stay up talking for a long time.


	4. pull it up by the roots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a bad idea. 
> 
> A terrible idea. 
> 
> He still accepted the supplies, though.

Martin wakes up with a blanket thrown around him, Sasha drooling on his shoulder, and a vicious backache. 

“Oh, god,” he groans, and painfully slowly sits up. Sasha makes a protesting noise, her long hair tangled in messy knots. Martin blinks rapidly. He’s still in Sasha’s flat, but the sun is shining in through the windows now. He… fell asleep on the couch, talking about the case with Sasha and Tim. 

Like drifting off mid conversation at a sleepover. Not that that ever happened to him, when he was a kid. He wasn’t really the sort of boy that got invited to those. Couldn’t invite other kids over to his place for a sleepover either. 

His phone buzzes. Probably what woke him up in the first place. He has a sinking feeling that he knows exactly who it is. 

It had taken him a while to convince Jon to go back into his flat for the night, alone. He’d been  _ upset. _ He’d had to make a lot of promises that he can’t really keep, morally speaking. One he  _ can _ keep, though, is meeting up with him again. 

God, but he doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t want to go through the whole mess of yesterday over again. The constant hyper vigilance of trying not to let Jon talk too loudly about inappropriate things where people might overhear, or touch him in ways that make people shoot furtive, incredulous glances at them. The inevitable failure, along with the burning embarrassment of that failure. And just the emotional exhaustion of talking to Jon while he’s like this, too. He doesn’t want to do any of it. 

He doesn’t really have a choice though, does he? Tim and Sasha had talked about the lead they’re planning on interviewing today last night, and they thought that they could manage to squeeze in a second interview with the next lead as well, if they manage to wrap it up early. They’re doing important work. Martin shouldn’t ask for them to put that on pause just because he’s  _ tired. _ He’ll get to have them around him during the work week again. He just has to get through this weekend, wrangling Jon all on his own. He can do that.  _ He can do this.  _

He gets up, swearing quietly to himself as his back twinges. There’s a reason that kids are the ones falling asleep at random places during sleepovers, not adults. 

“Noooo,” Sasha groans, but quiets down as soon as she gently collapses into the space he’s vacated. She nestles into the warm spot where his body warmth still lingers. He throws his own blanket over her, even though she’s already wearing one herself. Sasha had been  _ very _ tuned into talking about the case, before his memories of last night started going sleep fuzzy, which means that the man responsible for the blankets can only be--

“Hey,” Tim says quietly, careful not to stir Sasha. He’s standing in the doorway of the kitchen holding a mug of something, unshaved morning scruff on his cheeks. As is typical for Tim, it just makes him look dashing and rugged in an action movie hero sort of way, where it’d make Martin just look a bit sloppy and messy. 

“Morning,” Martin replies, matching his volume. “Can’t believe you let us fall asleep on the couch, you jerk.” 

“The two of you looked so cozy, cuddled up together like that,” he says innocently. “I just couldn’t bring myself to wake you.” 

“And where did you sleep, exactly?” he asks dryly. 

“Well, the couch was taken, so I had to take the bed, unfortunately. I had to go and sleep all alone on a mattress while the two of you were having a snuggle party. Cruel of you, really.” 

“I should tell on you to Sasha,” he says, and then he sighs. “Sorry, I’ve just got to… figure out what to do with Jon today, I guess.” 

“I’ve got an idea for that,” he says, and _ that _ wakes Martin up. 

“Oh?” he says a little bit desperately, and starts picking his way across Sasha’s research mess towards Tim, trying to avoid tripping or making any loud clattering noises that might wake her up. 

“Yeah. Woke up a couple of hours ago, so I’ve had a while to think about it. It’s kind of mean but… it should work.” 

_ Mean  _ isn’t really what he was hoping for, but… he’ll hear him out at least. 

“What did you have in mind?” 

Jon wakes up early, as is his habit. His body is basically hardwired to wake up at six in the morning every morning, at this point. Normally, he uses this skill to get more work done, which is why he has to take files home with him, and sometimes go into the office during the weekend as well if it turns out that he hadn’t brought enough work to do the first time around, or it turns out that there’s another file that he has to reference to keep moving ahead. 

He has a more important goal now, however. Martin had _ promised _ him his company today, and Jon’s not going to let him get away with what he pulled yesterday again. They’re not going out somewhere public where they can’t do anything (it’s inappropriate, no one wants that). He’s going to Martin’s flat, and he’s going to stay there, no matter what Martin says. He  _ will  _ convince him to let him stay, whatever it takes. 

… Martin hadn’t even thought that Jon really  _ likes _ him. How can’t he see that Jon likes him so much that it eclipses every single other part of him? It feels so overpowering, so intense and all consuming, that it feels like anyone should be able to just look at him and see Martin’s name scrawled on his soul. 

Nevermind that. He is going to Martin’s flat, and he is going to make him see that Jon wants this, wants  _ him, _ and there’s no sense at all in either of them not taking something if both of them want it. It’s that simple. He will make it that simple. Nothing else is acceptable. 

Jon is already on the tube, heading towards the closest station to Martin’s flat, when he gets a text message from Martin. He answers it immediately. 

Martin isn’t responding to any of the messages Jon had sent him earlier, but that doesn’t matter, because Martin is _ inviting him over to his flat. _ Sure, Jon is already heading there, and without a warning as well because he’s learned that it’s better to catch Martin off guard or else he’ll sidle out of arms range before he can manage anything of consequence, but now Martin _ wants _ Jon in his flat. That’s  _ wonderful _ progress. 

Maybe those trips they went on together yesterday really were good. Maybe Jon had managed to say something, at some moment, that convinced Martin that it’s okay for him to have what he wants. 

He responds with a very firm confirmation. 

Tim gave Martin supplies. 

It’s a bad idea. 

A _ terrible _ idea. 

He still accepted the supplies, though. He goes over them, again and again, and reads up extensively on how to use them correctly, and what to do if something goes wrong, god forbid. 

It’s a bad idea, but he really doesn’t have any other ones, okay. Eventually, after he’s spent multiple hours fretting himself in the same circles, he has to be stern with himself and make himself stop. He texts an invitation to Jon. Gets a confirmation. 

He sits down on his couch, and tries to focus on absolutely anything else. Tries to read a book, doesn’t take in any of the words. Taps his nice pen against his nice notepad trying to think of flowery phrases, and just stares at a blank page for a while. 

Yeah, this isn’t working. After a moment of dithering, he remembers all at once the jolt of self conscious panic that had absurdly hit him before anything else when Jon had managed to slip his way into his flat. He should be cleaning, hiding away as much of the neglected mess of his flat as he can before Jon arrives and sees. 

He used to be good at keeping a clean house. He still is, technically, except he always feels too tired nowadays to use those skills he’s left moldering inside of himself. Well, he’d been tired back then too, when he’d been a teenager with a job with a sick and getting sicker mum to look after. Even more so, really. But he’d think about his mum wearing the same sweater two days in a row, despite the fact that it was already beginning to reek of pain sweat, and he’d somehow be able to scrape up that last bit of energy at the bottom of the barrel to go and do the laundry, even though all he wanted in the world was to just collapse into bed. 

Now, no one really suffers if he leaves off on the laundry or the dishes or the vacuuming a bit too long. And that makes it really, really hard to summon up the energy to do it at all until far past the last possible moment. Especially since he… doesn’t really have guests over. Except now he will, and there’s dishes from days ago waiting for him in the sink, and now that he’s thinking about it, this place smells  _ musty.  _

The next twenty minutes passes in a bit of a frantic messy blur. He is nowhere near done when his buzzer goes off, loud and almost unfamiliar from how rarely it has happened before. 

_ “Martin, I’m waiting downstairs. Let me in,”  _ Jon says curtly through the intercom. 

He looks at the disorganized, half cleaned mess of his flat, and groans. How did Jon get here so fast? Against his will, Jon’s address has been etched into his memory, his mind grasping onto details that aren’t his to memorize and treasure, and he’s pretty sure that it should’ve taken Jon way longer to get here. 

The buzzer goes off again, impatiently. 

“Alright, alright,” he mutters to himself, and rushes to hide the vacuum machine away, hoping he can hide away his half finished impromptu spring cleaning, and maybe pass off the state his flat is in now as the norm. He really would’ve liked to have an extra hour to take care of everything, but maybe this is going to look more authentic. The imperfections making it look less like he’s trying to hide something, maybe. 

Martin buzzes Jon into the building. Nervously, he checks up on the supplies again, just to see if they haven’t spontaneously vanished while he wasn’t paying attention. They’re exactly where he left them. There’s a rapid knocking at his door, and he startles despite himself. He knew Jon was coming up, he’s just-- he’s so fucking _ tense.  _

He makes himself stop for a moment, just to take a deep breath. Inhale, exhale. This is fine. He can do this. It’s just one afternoon with Jon. Alone. In his flat. Together. 

“Martin?” Jon calls out from behind the door. 

“Coming,” he replies, and forces himself to walk forward and unlock the door. Jon opens it himself, not waiting for Martin to do it for him. Jon darts through the door like he’s expecting for it to be slammed in his face, past Martin and into his flat. “... Nice to see you,” he greets him, blinking. He closes the door. 

Jon has his chin slightly lifted, like he’s feeling a bit proud of an accomplishment. 

He doesn’t spare Martin’s flat a single glance. Which, honestly, of course. Jon does not care about anything else but Martin, when Martin’s in the same room as him. Why would he start now? Was he seriously expecting for Jon to turn his nose up at some dust all of a sudden? He needn’t have bothered with any of the panic or the cleaning. Waste of time and effort. 

Martin keenly wishes that a familiar look of haughty, distasteful judgement would flicker over Jon’s face. Just a dry little comment that would embarrass him, a ‘what a…  _ nice _ place you have’, the compliment so forced and obviously false that it circles around into becoming an insult. The snippiness isn’t his favorite part of Jon, isn’t what makes something inside of his chest go warm and aching with fond longing sometimes, but it’s  _ him.  _ More than anything else, he wishes that Jon would act like himself again. 

Instead, Jon’s eyes are glued to Martin, bright and intent, like he’s the most interesting thing in the world. 

“You’re not going to be able to make me leave this time,” he states, like he’s laying down the law. 

“I mean, I could just pick you up and toss you out,” Martin can’t help but point out, even though he’d really rather not have to literally throw Jon out of his flat. He’d get bruises, for one thing. For another, the neighbours and the landlord would probably  _ not _ appreciate the fuss. 

Jon frowns at this unexpected wrench in the works. “You _ won’t,” _ he says firmly, just a hint of uncertainty hiding underneath the firm bravado of his words. 

“Okay,” he agrees, and Jon’s mouth opens and closes, apparently stalling out a bit on the argument he’d been prepared to have. Martin’s easy agreement was the last thing he was prepared for, evidently. 

“I-- yes. Yes, good,” he says, clearly put off balance. After a moment, he puffs himself back up, spine straightening, expression going stern and self assured again. “We will now be going into your bedroom,” he says, and there’s a testing edge to his commands now, like he wants to see what Martin will do next. Now that Martin’s surprised him once, anything could potentially happen, apparently. 

“Alright,” he says, and his mouth goes a little dry at that. His stomach twists a bit with anxiety, at what he’s about to do. His palms feel sweaty. 

Jon stares at him with wide eyes for a stretched out moment, and then he  _ grins, _ and oh, Martin has never seen him grin or smile or go bright and eager as often as he has in this last week. He’s especially beautiful like this, when he’s happy or excited. It’s terrible. 

“Yes! Exactly, about _ time, _ Martin, honestly. You really are good at delaying things.” Jon rushes forwards and grabs onto Martin’s arm and starts pulling him forwards further into his flat, because apparently just letting Martin walk on his own would take too long. 

Martin smiles a bit at that, crooked and wry. It almost sounds like something Jon would say back before he was cursed. The tone isn’t quite right, though. Not scathing enough. He lets himself be pulled. 

“Wrong door,” he says. “That’s the bathroom. Come on, bedroom’s this way-- yeah.” 

Damn it, he forgot to clean up the bedroom. There’s a crumpled pile of clothes on the laundry chair in the corner, and the bed is unmade. Ugh, it’s fine, get _ over _ it, he has to stop fussing over how clean his place is. He’s still a little bit embarrassed, despite himself. 

Jon let’s go of Martin’s arm, and his hands immediately go for Martin’s zipper. He tilts his hips away, his hands going to still Jon’s hands, an almost familiar motion by now. 

“What  _ now,”  _ Jon snaps. 

“Hang on,” Martin says, and then he licks his lips and says what he knows he needs to say. “Follow my lead.” 

Jon’s frown slips away at that, leaving behind a wide eyed surprise that quickly shifts to hungry excitement. He nods eagerly. 

Yeah, he’d been betting that that would work. Jon’s been very vocally enthusiastic about the idea of Martin… bossing him around, sort of. Taking charge. Except for when what Martin wants is to  _ not _ have sex, of course. Naturally. But now that things finally look like they’re going to end in a way that involves Martin pounding him into a mattress, he’s suddenly all obedient docility, with a barely restrained eagerness apparent to see in how he  _ rushes  _ to obey Martin. 

“Get on the bed,” he says, and Jon practically dives for it, shucking off his shoes and tossing them onto the floor. Then he neatly kneels there in the middle of Martin’s bed, his ankles underneath his bum, his hands on his knees, looking at Martin with bright, expectant eyes, positively vibrating with anticipation. Martin swallows. He feels heady with it, the instant obedience, the sight of  _ Jon _ in his  _ bed.  _

He takes a deep breath, tries to clear his head. Focus. That’s not what’s going to happen here. 

“One moment,” he says, and goes and gets Tim’s supplies. He’s tucked them away in the drawer of his nightstand, and Jon’s head swivels to follow him as he circles the bed and pulls it open. He takes out the supplies. 

_ “Oh,” _ Jon says, a small little breathless noise of want and awe. 

Yeah, Martin had _ figured  _ he’d be excited about this. At first. He tosses the coil of rope onto the bed, in front of Jon. Jon’s gaze is glued to it, like it has a magnetic hold on him. Martin takes out the shears from the drawer as well, and places it on top of the nightstand. For emergencies. The rope Tim gave him is apparently specifically for this sort of thing, and he personally vouched for it, saying he’d had _ good experiences  _ with it, so-- it’ll probably be fine? Except this is the first time he’s going to be doing something like this, and he really hopes that he won’t end up hurting Jon or something. 

Jon reaches up to unbutton his shirt, and Martin makes a forbidding noise without even thinking about it, like scolding a dog. Jon freezes, just like said chided, guilty dog. Martin feels his face start to go hot and flushed. 

“Keep your clothes on,” he says, and his voice comes out a bit… deeper, gravelier than it should. Edging towards husky. Damn it, he’s not supposed to be letting this  _ affect _ him. 

“Right,” Jon breathes. He nods to himself, and places his hands flat down on his thighs, as if to show how he very much isn’t doing anything with them. “Yes, okay.” 

Martin gets on the bed, the mattress squeaking and dipping underneath his weight, making Jon tilt towards him like he’s the center of gravity and he was made to orbit him. He grabs the coil of rope, undoes the tie keeping it in a neat and tidy circle. He’d done a lot of reading on what sort of knots he should use, and what position he should put Jon in. If this is going to last for any significant amount of time, he  _ shouldn’t _ tie his hands behind his back, because that would be bad for his shoulders, apparently. Tying his hands in front of him won’t give him the opportunity to untie the knots on his legs so long as he does it a certain way, the websites he’d found had told him. 

“Hold your arms out,” he says. “Wrists together, palms facing you.” 

Jon immediately obeys. Martin is massively tempted to make excuses and go and get his phone and open up the tutorial video he’s watched a dozen times already, but he’s got a feeling that if he tries to leave this bed right now that Jon might throw an actual tantrum. It’s okay. He’s memorized the steps. He practiced the knots. For a few hours. Kind of wish that he’d gotten a few  _ days _ first, but Jon isn’t going to wait, now is he? 

He takes a deep breath, and starts looping the rope around Jon’s wrists. He ties it off with a firm knot after a few passes, and looks carefully at Jon’s face, who’s watching the simple ropework on his wrists as if it’s entrancing. 

“Good?” he asks him, his voice coming out too raspy, and he has to clear his throat. 

“What?” Jon asks, eyes snapping over to Martin’s, as if woken from a daydream. 

“Does it-- is it okay?” 

“It’s perfect.” 

“I-- I mean it. Try pulling at it, is it loose?” 

Jon visibly tries to pull his wrists apart, but the ropes restrain him. His next breath shudders out of him, at that. He nods, and Martin thinks he can see the dark skin of his face going darker. He can  _ feel  _ the urge to reach out and cup his face in his hands tingling in his very fingers, to try and feel the warmth there hiding underneath his skin. He swallows it down. 

“It’s-- it’s quite excellent, Martin,” he says, and something inside of Martin  _ burns _ at that, at having done a good job for Jon. Taking good care of him.  _ Excellent. _ He wants more of that. He wants to spread Jon’s legs and fuck into him until he’s screaming praise, so overwhelmed and breathless that he can’t even get coherent sentences out, just gasps and moans and broken words like _ good _ and  _ more _ and  _ Martin. _

He takes a deep breath, and wishes he had a bucket of cold water to shove his head into for a moment. 

“What about the opposite problem?” he makes himself ask, his voice not quite steady. “Is it too tight?” 

“No,” Jon says, too quickly, not thinking it over, not testing. Martin frowns at him. 

“Jon,” he says sternly. “I’m serious. You _ have _ to tell me if your fingers start feeling numb or something, okay? I don’t want for you to lose circulation. I don’t want for you to get hurt.” 

Jon shivers a bit at that, so finely that Martin wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t sitting so close, wasn’t watching so carefully. He nods. Opens and closes his bound fists. 

“It’s not uncomfortable,” he says. “I’ll tell you if it starts to hurt, or go numb.” 

“Good,” he says, and Jon gives a little sigh that makes Martin feel  _ hot.  _ He grabs the rope and focuses on the knots, how to twist and turn and tug at the ropes just right. Jon moves as Martin tells him and lets himself be maneuvered easily, pliant and docile. It’s more than Martin’s heart can take. Technique, focus on the technique. 

Attached to the rope looped around Jon’s wrists, he extends a noose around his neck. He makes sure it’s loose enough that it won’t choke him, but cinched tight enough that he won’t be able to slip it off over his head, the knot for the noose in a place where Jon won’t be able to pluck it loose. This is going to stop Jon from being able to reach the knots on his legs. Then, with a separate (but clearly from the same set) coil of rope he ties Jon’s elbows together. Next is around the knees, and then the ankles. At every step of the way, after every single knot, he asks him intently if it’s too tight, too harsh. Jon denies it every single time, which makes him a bit nervous that he might be lying. If he gets Jon hurt… 

Once he’s done with the last knot, Martin sighs and sits back on his heels, looking over his work. And then he realizes what he’s  _ surveying, _ and he has to look away. It’s Jon, tied up pretty and helpless, looking at Martin with dark eyes like he can't wait for what he’ll do next. 

“Sure you’re comfortable?” Martin asks, a bit high pitched. 

“Yes,” Jon breathes. 

“G-- good, great, that’s-- great. Just great. Just… stay like that, I guess.” 

He sits there for a long moment, darting quick glances at Jon every now and then. The hungry look slowly fades from Jon’s face as the silence lingers, until he’s frowning with confusion. 

“Aren’t you going to… do something?” Jon says, as if he’s prompting him with his lines, as if Martin’s simply forgotten the next step. 

“Um, yeah, about that,” he says, and anxiety twists in his stomach, sort of reminding him of the sensation he’d get sometimes when he’d have to tell Jon that he’s messed up in some way, instead of Jon finding it out on his own. Knowing that he’s about to tell him something that he  _ won’t _ like. “Nothing’s going to happen. Sorry.” 

Jon stares at him in incomprehension for a long moment, and Martin knows that he gets it when his eyes abruptly slam wide open. He jerks his hands in their bonds, not a testing movement to feel the satisfaction of being restrained any longer, but an honest attempt to get free. He doesn’t manage it, of course. The knots hold firm. 

“Martin,” he says. “Don’t you  _ dare.”  _

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and stands up from the bed. Jon is beginning to look  _ pissed. _ Gagging him would probably be taking it too far, even if Martin really doesn’t like being shouted at. Tying him up to make him keep his hands to himself is a practical thing, while the gag would just be unnecessary, and probably cruel. Plus, Jon still does need to be able to let Martin know if he’s starting to go numb or something. 

“No,” he says, and pulls at the rope again, in vain. “You can’t  _ do _ this.” 

“You, um, look like you might need some space, just for a bit--” 

“Get back here!” 

Martin retreats from his bedroom. 

Jon  _ can’t believe this.  _ Of all of the dirty tricks-- he  _ lied  _ to him! Acted like he was going to take everything he wanted, take Jon, and then he  _ didn’t. _ Tied him up and then doesn’t even have the good grace to fuck him. He’s never felt this betrayed in his life. 

Outside of the bedroom, Jon hears the vacuum machine turn on. He glares at the closed door. Chores. He’s doing _ chores, _ when Jon is right here. Unbelievable. 

This isn’t right. None of this is right. Martin should be here, with him, touching him, looking at him, taking  _ care _ of him. Not ignoring him. 

Jon struggles. He struggles until the skin around his neck chafes sore and burning, his wrists at least protected by his sleeves. He doesn’t manage to budge the firm ropes a single inch. Instead, all he manages is to work up a sweat and dishevel his clothes. This isn’t how it was supposed to  _ happen.  _ Martin was supposed to-- to use his mouth, since he’d left Jon’s clothes on and tied him in a way that kept his legs closed… should that have been a hint? Is Jon a fool for falling for this, for letting himself get into this situation? 

He feels frustrated tears prickle at his eyes, and he bares his teeth. He’s so  _ tired _ of this, of not being used, not being taken. It’s not fair. He’d be so good at it, he’d make Martin feel so good, have Martin make him feel so good. He wants this. Martin wants this. So  _ why-- _ he doesn’t understand-- 

Jon’s breath gets knocked out of him as he manages to roll himself right off of the bed and onto the floor. He blinks dizzily, and outside the vacuum machine stops. 

“Jon?” he hears Martin worriedly call out, before the door opens and he makes a distressed, squeaky sort of noise. He rushes over to crouch by Jon. “Oh god, are you okay!?” 

“I just fell off the bed,” he says, gathering his wits about him. “Not from a flight of stairs, so  _ calm down, _ Martin.” 

Martin scoops him up, one arm underneath his knees, the other under his back, and he places him carefully back down on the bed. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he frets. “Take a-- take a moment to self assess.” 

How can he act like he _ cares _ about Jon when he won’t even properly take him? His eyes sting again, and he hates it, hates the tight feeling in his chest, hates how hot his face feels, hates how helpless he feels, in the worst way. Feeling helpless around Martin is supposed to feel good, but he’s not doing the right things with it. None of this is  _ right.  _

“Oh,” Martin says, even though Jon hasn’t said anything. “Oh no.” 

“You left me _ alone,”  _ he says, and he doesn’t know why. Martin leaves Jon alone all of the time. He always leaves first. It’s starting to feel normal. He hates it. 

“I-- I thought you-- you were so mad, and I wasn’t going to listen to you no matter what you said, and it seemed wrong for me to see you like this. Tied up. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be-- to be mean.” 

“You  _ ignored  _ me,” he says. 

Martin is starting to look as wretched as Jon feels. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I-- I swear I couldn’t stop thinking about you. It felt  _ weird _ to go around doing chores while I knew you were in here and couldn’t move. I was going to check up on you as soon as I was done with the vacuuming, see if you were still okay. I swear.” 

“You just left.” 

Martin makes a small pained noise, like he’s been hit. He reaches out and helps Jon sit up and-- and he hugs him. Jon is stiff for a long moment, before he lets himself collapse into the crook of Martin’s neck and shakes. Martin’s hand strokes his back, a firm, soothing pressure. 

“I’m sorry. That must have been-- upsetting, more than I thought it’d be. I thought you’d get mad, not… I didn’t think.” 

Jon breathes against Martin’s skin, feeling his own hot breath on his face, smelling Martin’s scent. If he reaches out for a taste, Martin will flinch back, recoil, get out of arm's reach. It always happens like that. He doesn’t know why, but it does. It’s not fair. 

“I’ll stay,” Martin says. “I’ll stay here with you, I promise, until I can let you go. We can just sit here for a while.” 

Jon presses his face against Martin’s shoulder. It’s a special kind of hell, being _ so close _ to what he wants, and still not getting it. But being close to Martin is always better than being further away. And he hadn’t liked it, being tied up and alone, ignored. 

“Promise,” he says, muffled against Martin. 

“I promise,” Martin says, and it’s not a lie this time. 

Tim is standing out in the hallway of a nice townhouse, listening to the muffled voices of Sasha and a woman talk, low and serious. She’s interrogating the latest lead, another victim of the rose. She’ll give him the abbreviated version after she’s done, the summary mercifully free of any unnecessary details or raw feeling. He’s fiddling with his phone when Sasha comes out of the room, a thoughtful look on her face. She’s not rushing, which is a good sign. Sometimes they get kind of a… really bad reaction, and have to leave in a hurry. 

“Interview gone well?” he asks her. 

“Yeah…” Sasha says distractedly, still clearly lost in her thoughts. The woman, Sophie Simes, he thinks, comes out after her, and gives them both a tense, uncomfortable smile. 

“Let me lead you out,” she says, which is fair enough. They don’t exactly make anyone’s day more pleasant by dredging all of this up, even if they’re talking to people who have managed to put the whole thing past them to some degree by now, and Sasha seems to have gotten the hang of phrasing herself in a way that’s most likely to not immediately get a door slammed in her face once she first broaches the subject. 

Simes leads them out of her home, and Tim opens his umbrella once he sees what the weather’s like. Sasha immediately huddles underneath it with him, pressed up close for full coverage. 

“So, how did it go?” he asks her. “Did she tell you where she got the rose from?” 

“Hm? Oh, yeah, one of her clients gave it to her,” she says, and she almost sounds disinterested as she says that. Tim raises his eyebrows at her. 

“I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me,” he says. 

“I just-- she said something kind of interesting,” Sasha says. “I don’t know, but I think I might be onto something?” 

Tim’s attention sharpens at that. It’s started to feel like they’ve been slowly easing their way into accepting the possibility of failure lately, bracing themselves for having to to give up. This is the first indication in a while for the opposite of that, and he wants to grasp at it with desperation. “What sort of interesting thing?” 

“She talked about the way she acted… I don’t know, I don’t really have a firm grasp on it.” She bites at her lower lip, brow furrowed, and they just walk in silence for a long moment as the rain falls down around them. He gives her the time to think, and eventually she nods firmly to herself, as if she’s come to a decision. “I need to interview everyone a second time,” she says. 

Tim blinks. “What?” 

“All of the victims especially,” she says. “Oh, and the targets as well, yeah, that could be useful. I think I might be onto something, maybe, I just have to confirm it.” 

“What are you going to ask them?” he asks. “You’ve been really thorough with them already, haven’t you?” 

He’s seen the list of questions that Sasha has written down. He helped her come up with more of them, figure out the best phrasing for each one, follow up questions. It’s a long, long list. He can’t think of what other angle there is to cover. 

“No, I haven’t,” she says, shaking her head. “I let propriety get to me, and an emergency situation isn’t the time for that. I should have been more… invasive with my questioning, I think.” 

_ Sasha _ not being invasive enough? The woman who hacks people’s computer history and employment files out of pure curiosity in her spare time? 

“More invasive how?” he asks. 

She tells him. 

Martin comes into work feeling… not great. The image of Jon, tied up and  _ upset,  _ sits with him like a guilty lump. He knew that he wouldn’t like it, being tied up and then not touched, but the reality of it was… he’d thought he’d been prepared for it, and he hadn’t been. 

Jon isn’t going to be falling for that trick again. And even if he might, Martin doesn’t think he’d be able to bring himself to pull that trick again. It was mean. Martin doesn’t want to be that, not to Jon, not when he’s like this. 

The problem is, though, that he’s running out of options, and there’s still no end to this in sight. What is he going to do next weekend? Oh god, the idea of this continuing for a  _ whole more week _ is unbearable. He already feels so frazzled, so worn down, and it really has just been a single week. Terrible. 

When he comes into work, it’s to see that only Tim is in the office. Well, Jon is presumably shut off inside of his office, hopefully actually doing some work instead of just pining after Martin, but he doesn’t see Sasha anywhere, not even her coat draped over the back of her chair. 

“Sasha’s in late?” he asks, getting settled down at his own desk. 

Tim turns and looks at him, which is when Martin first registers the dark circles underneath his eyes. 

“Woah,” he says. “Late night? Did something happen?” 

“Sasha wanted to go and interview everyone we’ve already talked to a second time,” he says. “ASAP. So, that’s what we stayed up late on Sunday doing. I think she’s actually doing a quick morning interview with someone right now, she texted me. I already know that that person’s harmless, so… I left her to it.” 

“Oh,” he says, blinking. A tendril of concern shoots through him. “... Why? Are you guys really that desperate for leads?” 

He’d been desperate for all of this to just be over already just a few moments ago, but now that it looks like that deadend may already be approaching it all feels like it’s happening too fast, too soon. They have to have more time than this, it can’t be hopeless already. He doesn’t want to hurt Jon. 

When he’d untied Jon yesterday, after a few hours of sitting with him, there had been a rubbed raw circle around his neck, from when Martin had left him alone and he’d struggled. Martin had rubbed ointment into it and felt like trash. 

“Oh, no, we have a next lead to follow up on, don’t worry,” Tim hurries to reassure him, apparently seeing where his mind is going. “Sasha just thinks that she may be onto something, and she wanted to double check with all of the other leads we’ve found.” 

Martin leans in. “Onto something? Like what? A solution?” 

“I don’t know,” he says. “She didn’t explain it super well, I don’t think even she quite knew what she was trying to get at. Something to do with the more embarrassing details, she said? It’ll be new information, at least.” 

“Right,” he says, and can hardly focus on anything at all after that. Onto  _ what, _ exactly? What does Sasha think she’s seeing? Is it really there? Is it something that can help? 

This whole case has wreaked absolute havoc on Martin’s work ethic. He’s lucky, in a way, that Jon doesn’t really care about that any longer, except for how he’d do almost anything to get Jon to a place where he would care about that stuff again. 

Jon pokes his head out of his office before Sasha gets back. He straightens when he sees Martin, and comes out of his office properly. 

“Oh, yeah, he’s here now, boss,” says Tim. “--actually, that reminds me, I forgot to ask how last night went for you two crazy kids.” 

“Later,” Martin mutters in an aside to him, before turning his attention back to Jon. He’s relieved to notice that the rope mark around his neck isn’t very noticeable, and has only gotten fainter since Martin last saw him. He probably wouldn’t even notice it if he weren’t looking for it. That’s good. No serious injuries. “Morning, Jon.” 

“Martin,” Jon says, which is about the chilliest reception he’s received since this all began. He doesn’t look mad, exactly, but Martin feels weirdly like he should start groveling and whip out a bouquet of flowers. Jon doesn’t say anything more, just looks at him. Martin crumbles underneath the pressure of a tense silence, as always. 

“Did you, um, have a nice night?” he says, and god, he’s already wincing at himself, at the mindless prattle falling out of him. 

“You know I didn’t,” says Jon. 

“Right,” says Martin, vividly imagining the floor opening up and swallowing him whole. “Right. Ah, I meant-- after you left? And went home? Never mind. Sorry.” 

He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop apologizing to Jon again. 

“... How does your neck feel?” 

“Fine.” 

“Great! Great.” 

“Oh my god,” says Tim. “Jon, quit it. If you’re just gonna stand around and stare at Martin and make him nervous you can just go and do some work instead.” 

Jon frowns. “I… don’t want to.” 

“So you’re just going to stand there,” Tim says. 

“Well, it’s not like anything else I’ve done or said has had  _ any _ effect!” bursts out of him, making Martin flinch at the suddenness of the outburst. Before, he’d been having trouble getting a solid read on him, but now he looks _ upset. _ Martin hates seeing Jon upset, he’s discovered over the past week. Until now, he’d only ever seen him annoyed, angry, or stressed at worst. This is new uncharted, terrifying territory. “What am I supposed to do? What can I do that will work? I can’t just leave him alone-- I don’t want to, and that’s obviously not the solution! What is the solution, then? What do I have to do to get him to--” Jon cuts himself off to make a wordless noise of pure frustration. 

Martin stares at him. 

It’s suddenly impossible not to see the parallel. Jon, desperate to find the solution. Martin, Tim, and Sasha, just as desperate to find it, but this doesn’t unify them. It opposes them, puts them on opposite sides, each of them trying to achieve a starkly different goal. Even if the outcome is pretty much identical. Jon, normal again. 

Things continue to be very, very unfair. 

Martin is still sitting around like a stunned idiot when Tim gets up from his desk and walks towards Jon. 

“Hey, hey,” he says. “I’m sorry, alright? Just… take a deep breath.” 

“Fuck you,” Jon says without hesitation, which makes Martin choke a bit on a surprised little bubble of laughter. 

It makes Tim grin as well, that crooked, charming flash of straight, white teeth. “Okay, sure,” he says. “But take a deep breath too, please. I know it’s annoying, but come on.” 

Jon glares at him, and then somehow  _ pointedly _ takes a deep breath, and then lets it out slowly. 

“I know everything’s really frustrating right now.  _ Trust me, _ I know.” 

“... was there anything more to that?” Jon asks eventually, raising an expectant eyebrow. 

“Uh,” Tim says, “Well, I was gonna give you some advice for how to cope with that, but I actually haven’t figured it out yet. It’s just really frustrating, yeah. It’s going to be over some day? Does that help?” 

“No,” says Jon, looking very much like he thinks Tim is acting like a huge idiot right now. “Considering that there is literally no end in sight for me right now, no, that does not help.” 

Tim shrugs. “Well, I did my best.” 

Jon rolls his eyes at him and… it does look like that whole thing helped a bit, actually. He doesn’t look like he’s on the verge or shouting or crying any longer, at least. 

Jon looks towards Martin, who tenses up a bit. He’d been feeling a bit like an invisible spectator for a moment there, an audience member looking at a screen, safe in the knowledge that the actors won’t suddenly turn and look at him. He hadn’t wanted to interfere, to cut in. Tim and Jon had looked like they were having a bit of a  _ moment _ there, and he hadn’t wanted to ruin it by reminding Jon that he exists, side railing him entirely. 

“You’re infuriating,” Jon tells him. It isn’t the first time he’s said something like that, but it is the first time since he’s been cursed. He is completely sick of Martin’s shit apparently, for the second time in his life. Martin wonders if that’s some sort of accomplishment. 

“Okay,” he says, accepting the diagnosis. He’d like to say that it’s the curse that’s infuriating, actually, but he doesn’t need one of those for people to be annoyed by him. 

“And we _ will _ have sex,” he goes. He sounds like he’s informing him of something inevitable. “It’s wanted, it’s desired, I need it. It will happen.” 

“Um,” he says. He’s getting more used to Jon saying stuff like that, but he still hasn’t really gotten the hang of what to say in response. 

Jon gives him a single nod, and then goes back into his office. 

“I think you just gave him a pep talk?” Martin says. 

“Oops?” Tim says. He grins at him, more of an apologetic grimace than anything else.  _ “Not _ my intention. I just wanted for him to…” 

“Yeah,” he says, taking pity on him. “Yeah, I get what you were trying to do. Thanks, Tim.” 

He’s not sure that he would’ve been able to defuse that whole situation the way Tim had managed. It seems like everything he says to Jon that isn’t ‘take your pants off’ just riles him up further. He probably would’ve just made him feel worse, trying to get him to calm down. He can’t  _ talk _ to Jon, not really. He’s never been able to, really, but it’s much worse now. 

“Also, what the hell happened last night?” Tim asks. “You  _ have _ to tell me now.” 

Martin groans at the reminder. 

Sasha had only meant to go on the one interview in the morning, really. She’d knock it out, then go to work, share the new theory she’s working on with Tim and Martin, and then go and do more interviews after work. But then the morning interview  _ hadn’t  _ debunked her latest theory, just like all of the ones she did yesterday. She’s not used to that. Until now, every single new theory she’s come up with that sounds even halfway plausible has been riddled with holes, easily disproved as soon as she got her hands on more data. But so far, this one is  _ holding up.  _ That’s _ exciting.  _

So she texts another one of the people she’s already interviewed, and gets the okay, and it’s close by and they said ‘any time is fine’ so… she texts Tim to let him know that she’s okay and goes and does another interview. And another one. And another one. And each time it holds up, they say the things she’s expecting them to say. 

Her theory is being confirmed. She’s making _ progress.  _

The people she interviews don’t appreciate her new questions and focus, admittedly, but she manages to convince the victims to cooperate on the grounds that she’s trying to find a better cure for her friend and help protect people from the artefact, which has the side bonus of actually being true, and she convinces the targets by threatening to blackmail them. It’s even easier than usual to find usable dirt on them. She’s glad that Tim isn’t here, at least. She knows that he can’t help but let this sort of ugliness get to him. 

Sasha spends the entire work day running across London or making phone calls, and by the time Tim calls her, she interrupts whatever he’s about to say with an urgent invitation to her flat. 

“And bring Martin,” she says, and hangs up. 

By the time they get there, she’s got all of the irrelevant tangents and speculation stacked off in a corner, out of sight, and she’s brought out her whiteboard and covered it in shiny, colored marker letters. 

“Hey!” she greets them, letting them in. “Get in, get in, come on, this is  _ very  _ interesting.” 

“Where have you  _ been _ all day?” Tim asks, taking his coat and boots off without looking away from her. 

“Busy! Listen, I’m sorry, but I found an interesting thread to pull on and then I couldn’t just stop pulling at it and--” 

“It’s fine,” Martin interrupts. “Just tell us what you’ve found out?” 

“Okay,” she says, claps, takes a deep breath, and gestures towards her whiteboard. “I first started thinking about it during the interview with our latest lead, Mistress Sophie.” 

“Mistress?” Tim asks. 

“That’s her prefered title. Because, see, she’s a professional dominatrix. She likes being dominant in the bedroom, always has. But during the interview she happened to mention that she was  _ submissive _ towards her client, the target. Even though she’s never been sexually submissive a day in her life, has never even vaguely wanted it.” 

“So… the rose makes the victim sexually subservient,” Tim guesses. 

She points at him.  _ “Not quite. _ It’s not that simple! During my initial interviews with everyone I glossed over the sex itself since sex is, you know, sex. It’s not that complicated, I can picture what generally happened without making them recount everything in exacting detail. I tried to focus on the stuff around that, but that was my first mistake! There was important information to be found in how all of the victims  _ acted  _ while they were having sex with their targets. What positions were they in, what acts were they drawn to, what kinks did they enthusiastically play out? And did any of those things have _ anything _ in common with what they normally like?” 

“The victims wanted things they don’t normally want?” Martin asks. “I mean-- beyond the obvious.” 

“Yes, exactly. Until now I was sort of thinking of it as just making the victim really, really want to fuck the target, like flipping an attraction switch in their brain, but it’s not just that. If that were the case, then the dominatrix would dominate her target, do the things she normally likes to him. But instead she went against her habits and preferences and _ happily _ did things that later disgusted her.” 

“So, Jo-- the victim, they’re twisted around until they want things that are going to horrify them later,” he says. She belatedly notices that Martin’s going rather pale. 

“Oh, uh-- no. No! That’s also simplifying things too much, actually. I talked to everyone, and they all talked about wanting and doing things that they normally weren’t into, things that actively disgusted them, things that they already _ liked, _ and things that they’d never even  _ heard _ of. There was seemingly no rhyme or reason to it, completely random. Just like the criteria for who the target is, utterly confusing and inconsistent. And then I started interviewing the targets as well.” 

“You what?” Tim asks. 

“This is more important, Tim. I discovered something incredible! The victims, they were all playing out the _ targets  _ most treasured fantasies. Their favorite kinks, sex acts, positions, all of it. Martin, I have some questions for you. They’re going to be really uncomfortable and embarrassing. You  _ have to _ answer them.” 

“I--” he says, wide eyed. He takes a deep breath, his fists white knuckling at the hem of his sweater. “Okay.” 

“Do you like public sex?” 

Martin blinks. Sasha presses on. 

“Do you like being watched by others, the thrill of possibly getting caught? Because I noticed, that’s the  _ one _ boundary that Jon seems to have. He doesn’t try to do things with you in front of others. Or at least, he restrains himself a lot more than he does when you’re alone together.”

“I-- I don’t. It’s… I like privacy. It’s more-- more intimate.” He slowly starts to go red as he continues to talk, but as far as she sees it, they’ve moved far past that sort of modesty by now. This is important. She’s onto something, she can scent blood in the water. 

“And do you like domination?” she goes on. 

“I-- I don’t--” 

She frowns. If her theory falls apart  _ now,  _ she’s going to have to go and have a  _ proper _ sulk. “You  _ don’t?”  _

His face kind of reminds her of a lobster by now. “I don’t want to be  _ mean _ to him-- to people. But I… holding people down, stuff like that, i-- it’s--” 

“Stuff like Jon’s being trying to push at you?” she coaxes him. “Everything he keeps talking about? Do you like that?” 

Mutely, he nods. She just barely restrains himself from cheering. 

She whips over towards Tim, who is giving Martin a very surprised look. Which, yeah, Martin is  _ way  _ kinkier than she’d first assumed, but that can wait! She’s on a  _ roll.  _

“Tim, you know Jon the best out of the three of us,” she says. “Has Jon ever indicated that he’s into anything like this? Do you know what he likes in the bedroom?” 

She is so, so close to something. She can _ taste  _ it. It’s a long shot that Tim might know, but she feels a sudden spark of hope when he shifts uncomfortably on her couch. 

“I…” he says. She takes a deep breath, tries to calm down and slow down for just a moment. 

“This is important,” she says, looking at him seriously. “I know this whole situation is messed up, but I need as much information as possible to try and fix it. Please, Tim.” 

She watches as he frowns, and then his shoulders go slack with resignation. 

“He’s never outright told me this himself, so it’s just speculation,” he says. “But… I’ve kind of been getting the feeling that he’s not into _ any _ of it, actually.” 

She stops at that. “Like… asexuality?” 

He nods. “Yeah, that was my impression.” 

“This… all lines up perfectly,” she breathes. The dots are connecting, the puzzle pieces fitting together, the impressionistic painting snapping into comprehension for her as she takes a step back and relaxes her gaze. The  _ feeling,  _ the ‘you’re figuring it out!’ feeling, it’s sliding down her scalp and spine as she talks, faster and faster, laying it all out. “See, I was thinking about all of this the completely wrong way! Without even thinking about it, I was thinking of it from the victim’s perspective. Who is the target to the victim, how does it affect them? They're the ones who are affected by the artefact, after all, they’re the ones whose behaviour is changed, they’re the ones who get cursed. But the victim doesn’t  _ matter. _ Not from the artefact’s perspective. It makes them not matter. What they want, what they’re really like, the artefact takes all of that and turns it into what the target wants. And that’s the final puzzle piece to figuring out what the criteria for who becomes the target is.” 

“I care,” Martin says. “Who Jon really is matters to me.” 

“Yes, I know. Some of the victims had targets who were dear friends, amiable exes, people they actually got along with. And others had stalkers, bitter exes, and people they didn’t even know the name of. I was tearing my hair out trying to figure out what the unifying thread was, but I was looking at it from the wrong angle. All of the  _ targets _ had something in common: they all wanted the victim, before they were cursed.  _ That’s _ the criteria! The victim pricks themselves on the rose, and then they want the person that wants  _ them _ the most! And they want them in the way that the target wants for them to want them. It turns them into an object of desire! It’s about--” 

Her door slams shut. She looks away from her whiteboard, and sees that Martin’s gone. 

“He left,” says Tim. 

“Oh,” she says. 

She… may have gotten a bit too caught up in the heat of the moment, there. 

Martin can’t catch his breath. He’s not running, but he still can’t do it. 

He’d never wanted to push his feelings onto Jon. It was just a silly crush that was never going to happen, he didn’t think it was for even a moment, it was just something to-- to  _ amuse _ himself with, it was supposed to be  _ harmless.  _ He knew Jon was never going to feel the same way, that he didn’t even like him. He isn’t stupid. He wasn’t going to bother Jon with his dumb crush, his embarrassing fantasies and unrealistic daydreams. 

Except, the rose went ahead and took care of that for him. Now his dumb, private crush _ is  _ being pushed on Jon, has warped him and changed him and Jon didn’t ask for any of it and  _ Martin _ didn’t ask for any of it and it’s not  _ fair.  _

It’s horrifying. All of this is happening to Jon because deep down Martin  _ wants _ it. His-- his arousal whenever Jon begs to suck him off isn’t incidental, it’s not some embarrassing side effect, it’s the point, it’s the  _ cause. _ None of this would’ve happened if Martin could just control his feelings. If he didn’t want things like this. What’s wrong with him? 

He goes to Jon’s flat. He’s memorized the address. He’d walked him up to his doorstep after the end of their ‘date’ on Saturday and convinced him slowly and painstakingly to go inside alone without Martin for the night. He’d barely managed it. 

Seeing Jon while they’re alone is a bad idea. Jon’s already been around Martin enough for the day, this isn’t necessary. All Martin’s going to accomplish is upsetting him, again. He’s so sick of upsetting Jon, of saying no, of not giving him what he wants. Except this isn’t what Jon wants. It’s what Martin wants, and he’s just gone ahead and replaced Jon’s desires with his own. He feels a bit like he’s dreaming, how unreal and awful this all is. 

He knocks on the door, feeling kind of numb and buzzing. His phone rang a few times while he was on the tube, but he hung up on the calls, texted Tim and Sasha that he was alright, he was fine, don’t worry. And then he turned off his phone. 

Jon opens the door. Martin’s never seen him in the clothes he wears when he’s home alone before, at the end of a long work day. It’s an oversized band t-shirt, not a group he recognizes, and flannel sleep pants that look soft and old, well worn. Jon blinks up at him, startled. 

“Hi,” Martin says. “Sorry for not calling ahead, I forgot.” 

More like he hadn’t even fully thought this through on his way here. The inside of his head feels too loud. 

“That’s alright,” Jon says, still looking terribly caught off guard. He holds the door open wider. “Do you want to come in?” he asks. He looks a bit like an unlooked for treasure has suddenly tumbled into his lap with zero effort on his part. Disbelieving, but eager. 

Martin walks inside. Jon closes the door behind him, locks it. 

“So what has brought you-- did you change your mind?” he asks, like he can’t quite believe it. But still hopeful. He  _ can’t _ give up on this, after all. 

Martin turns around, takes Jon by his shoulders, and looks into his eyes. Jon goes still underneath his hands-- because  _ Martin _ likes pushing his partners around. Jon doesn’t. Jon doesn’t like anything, probably, Tim had said. Asexual. He’s been making an  _ asexual _ guy try to sleep with him for the past week. Horrible. This is all horrible. 

“Jon,” he says, and he’s never been this firm in his life, he thinks. His voice sounds like iron. “I’m not going to sleep with you.” 

A familiar dismayed expression dawns over Jon’s face. “Why  _ not?” _ he asks. 

“Because I don’t want to,” he says, and he  _ wills _ for it to be true. He doesn’t want to sleep with Jon. He doesn’t want to touch Jon. He doesn’t think that Jon’s beautiful. Maybe he can make all of these things come true, if he just thinks about it hard enough. 

“You’re lying,” Jon says. “You do want me, I can feel it.” 

How many times has he said something like that? That he can feel Martin wanting him, that he knows it, even though Martin’s never said anything like it to him. Jon means that  _ literally, _ he can literally feel Martin wanting him. And Martin had just discounted it every time Jon brought it up, thinking it was just more weirdness. 

“Martin, please just take what you want--” 

_ “No,” _ he interrupts him. “No, I’m not going to fuck you, Jon, I don’t want to, it’s not ever going to happen so  _ give up!”  _

He’s shouting into Jon’s face by the end of it, looming over him, gripping his shoulders too tightly. He sees the look on Jon’s face, and lets go of his shoulders like his hands have been scalded. He takes a step back, out of his space. 

“S-- sorry,” he says. “I’m-- I’m sorry Jon, I didn’t mean to shout.” 

He’s never seen Jon look  _ scared _ before. 

God, what was he thinking, coming here? What did he think this was going to do? Why can’t he stop  _ fucking up?  _

“I’ll leave,” he says. “I--” 

“Oh, good lord,” Jon says faintly, and he looks like he’s going to be _ sick. _ He backs away from Martin until his back hits his door, looking at him with wide, horrified eyes. 

Martin freezes. 

“... Jon?” he asks, not daring to believe-- 

“I-- I have to,” Jon says, fumbling with the doorknob. “I have to leave, I--” 

Martin reaches out and snags Jon’s wrist. “Wait! Jon, is that-- is that you? Are you yourself again? Please--” 

Jon looks back at him, and it’s not with desperation or want or frustration. It’s just wide, white eyed panic and disorientation, the veil snatched away from him all at once and leaving him with the stark, blinding light of reality. Of what the last week has been like, _ really _ like. 

Somehow, Martin had been imagining this moment as more triumphant. A visceral relief, to be celebrated. That was stupid of him. 

“Yes,” he says. “Let go.” 

He lets him go. Jon opens the door and leaves his own flat. 

Martin doesn’t follow him. 


	5. repotting a blossom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can you talk to Jon? I-- I don’t think he wants to see me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that the final chapter count has increased to 6, as this one was just getting too long.

Martin still isn’t answering his phone. Not like he’s seeing who’s calling, seeing her name, and then hanging up without answering. It’s too quick for that, and he’s not answering Tim’s calls either, so. He’s not just screening her. He must have turned off his phone. Meaning, he’s not mad at her, she’s just upset him. That feels worse, somehow. 

Sasha wants to fix this _now._

“Maybe he needs a bit of space,” Tim says. He hasn’t left yet, and it’s getting to be late enough that it might just be easier for him to stay the night over. It happens often enough with them. “Give him some time alone first and then talk to him?” 

“I didn’t mean to-- to hurt his feelings,” she says. She’s pacing, and she keeps drawing up Martin’s contact information on her phone before changing her mind about calling him again. If he turns his phone back on to over a dozen missed calls, she’s going to look like a maniac. But she wants to _fix_ this. 

This isn’t the first time she’s forgotten to pay attention to how her words might be affecting someone and accidentally created some hurt feelings. This is, however, the first time she’s felt this shitty about it. He just-- she needs for him to know--

“I’m sure he knows that,” Tim assures her. 

“It’s not like I’m _happy_ that the curse made Jon fall for Martin because of his crush! That’s not what I meant! I was excited about the progress, the discovery. We’re finally getting somewhere in this case, learning new things. It could help us figure out the solution!” 

“I don’t think Martin thinks you’re happy about any of this. He’s not dumb, he knows you. He just… it’s a lot to take in, you know. He probably feels like this is his fault.” Tim grimaces. “We’re definitely going to have to talk to him in a bit. Tomorrow?” 

Sasha makes a frustrated noise and tugs at her hair. Was there a way that she could’ve broken the news to him more gently? How? It’s kind of an inherently messed up discovery. But-- excited rambling probably wasn’t the way to go. But she’s been tearing at her hair over this mystery for a solid fucking _week,_ staying up late every single night, thinking and thinking and thinking about the case almost every single moment of every day, picking at every single detail she could get her hands on, desperate for any kind of progress. And then she finally actually found it, and it was such a fucking relief she just wanted to share it with them immediately. 

She hates feeling like an idiot. Like she’s put her foot in her mouth and stepped onto an obvious landmine. She’s _not_ an idiot. She hates how fraught this entire situation is. She’s not good at this, at being delicate and sensitive. She tries when she has to, but she’s not good at it. She hates not being good at things. She just wants to be able to focus on _fixing_ it, on fixing Jon. That’s what she can do to help. 

“Hey,” Tim says, and he’s gotten up from the couch and crossed the small living room towards her. He takes her by the hand and tugs at it, pulling her towards the couch. “Come on, stop pacing around. You’re gonna make your downstairs neighbours complain.” 

“Screw those guys,” she says, but she lets herself collapse down onto the couch. Tim sits down next to her. After a moment, he takes her hand, almost hesitantly. She turns her head to look at him, a little bit too tired to be confused or curious, but close to it. Waiting to see what he’s going to do next. 

“I know you’re so obsessed with solving this whole thing not because you like figuring stuff out. Or not _just_ because.” He gives her a bit of a teasing grin, but it quickly turns into something softer, more sincere. “It’s how you care. You were so excited about finding out something new about the curse because it means you might be able to help Jon.” 

She blinks. She feels, abruptly, too seen. Like she’s revealed more of herself than she thought she was. The realization is weirdly shocking, makes her want to hide herself away. Like she only belatedly realized that she left the house without putting clothes on first. 

Which is dumb. It’s not like caring about Jon as a friend, wanting to find a way to help him, is some sort of dark secret that she was actively trying to hide. She wasn’t even thinking about it that much. She hasn’t been thinking about anything much at all, besides trying to figure this curse out. It’s weird though, the reminder that people can see her as well. 

“I kind of forgot about Martin for a bit, though,” she says. It’s easier to admit to being wrong about something, with Tim being on her side. “This whole thing must be… hard, for him.” 

“It makes sense,” Tim says, with a shrug. “Jon’s the one who’s cursed, we’re all focused on helping him the most. He needs it right now.” 

“I should probably apologize to Martin, though,” she says. Had that not been the plan, when she’d been trying to call him? Fixing things had felt so urgent, that she hadn’t really thought through what she was going to say to him. She probably would’ve tried to explain herself if he answered her, try and clarify her point, as if the problem was just Martin misunderstanding her, seeing an accusation where she was just outlining facts. It’s probably for the best that she was forced to take a moment to think, calm down. As much as she resents the idea of needing that. She’s _good_ at planning and acting under pressure. People, though. People are complicated and difficult, and not in a fun way. It’s not like a video game where you can try again if you mess up, with no permanent consequences. If you mess up with a person, sometimes that’s _it._

… It won’t be like that with Martin, right? He’s a sweet guy, friendly, apologizes to people at the drop of a hat. He knows that she didn’t mean to be-- to be insensitive. 

“Probably,” Tim agrees, and she squeezes his hand at the reminder that he’s here, he’s on her side. It’s comforting, reassuring. That no matter what happens, how this whole situation goes, she’s going to have Tim by her side at the end of it. She can be confident about that, and that certainty is grounding, calming. No matter how badly things are going to go, she’s going to have Tim, and the knowledge that she’d done her goddamned best. That’s all she needs to know that she’s going to be fine. She’s going to be fine. 

Tim’s phone starts ringing, vibrating on her coffee table. She sees Martin’s name light up on the screen, and her arm jerks as she feels the urge to snatch the phone up, before she belatedly remembers that that’s Tim’s phone, not hers. Martin’s not calling her. Is that a slight? Is that some sort of sign, is she supposed to read into it? She doesn’t know. 

Tim gives her a look, and then picks up his phone and answers it. 

“... Martin?” he says after a long moment of silence, during which Sasha doesn’t hear any tinny, indistinct words from the receiver. She inches closer, just a bit, leans towards the phone until she’s almost pressed as close to it as Tim is. She just-- she wants to know what he’s going to say. Is it something about her? 

_“T-- Tim,”_ she just barely hears Martin say, and something curdles inside of her stomach at the sound of his voice. He sounds like he’s crying, or close to it. She hadn’t meant to make him _that_ upset. She hadn’t meant to upset him at all. _“I need-- I…”_

Tim shoots her a concerned look, and she shamelessly presses in even closer until her ear is grazing Tim’s hand, the one holding up his phone. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks, even though he called Tim, not her. She needs to fix things. 

Martin doesn’t ask why she’s on the call. 

_“Can you talk to Jon? I-- I don’t think he wants to see me.”_

It occurs to Jon, after he’s walked about three blocks, that he just left his own flat. Once the damp from the rain soaked asphalt starts seeping into his socks, it occurs to him that he left without even putting on his shoes. Or bringing his keys, or his phone, or his wallet. He’s wearing a cozy, oversized t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, and that’s it. The evening chill nips at his arms, and he crosses them to try and preserve any warmth. A few people give him strange looks, but mostly they don’t. It’s London, a crowded city full of strange people. He’s not the most unique sight. 

He flees to the Magnus Institute without even thinking about it, the time it takes him to get there blurring around him. It’s after hours and he didn’t bring his keys with him, it’s locked up, but he knows that one of the back doors has a broken lock, so he slips inside. The inside of the building is silent, empty, and it’s a screaming relief to just be _alone._

The inside of his head feels like a dull roar. Loud, but so overwhelming he can’t pick out any individual thoughts. He walks further into the Institute, following a familiar path in the dimness, leaving soggy sock prints behind him. Eventually, he’s inside of the Archives, stacks and shelves and boxes of dusty files surrounding him. He walks past Tim, Sasha, and Martin’s _(Martin)_ desks, and goes inside of his office. He closes and locks the door behind him. He takes a deep breath, just standing there in the dark for a moment, alone, the door locked behind him. He’s in his office. He’s safe here, in his office. 

He was cursed here, in his office. 

A weird noise escapes him, and he hurriedly cuts it off. If he relaxes his iron grip on himself even slightly, he’s going to lose _all_ of it and… 

Jon just breathes for a bit. Slides down the door to the floor, but that’s fine, he has himself under control. He wraps his arms around his knees, tightly. He’s fine. It’s fine. This is fine. 

“I’m fine,” he tries saying out loud. He doesn’t sound fine. He clears his throat, and tries for a more normal tone. Like nothing unusual is happening. “My name is Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Everything is fine. It wasn’t a little while ago, but I’m fine now. I’m free. The curse was broken. I’m myself again now. I can think clearly. I can see reality.” 

Can he? He’d been _so_ certain that he’d been acting like himself all week. That nothing about his behaviour or thoughts or actions were strange. He remembers that. He remembers that, because it had only been-- an hour? Two hours?-- since he was… like that. His mind had felt so clear, so normal. Nothing felt out of place, besides how strangely everyone _else_ was acting. Nothing they did or said made sense. 

He had felt exactly the way he always feels. The way he feels now. Like his thoughts were his own. 

Jon realizes that he’s trembling, and he digs his fingers into his arms harshly. He has to keep a hold of himself. Even if this is somehow worse than Mr. Spider, the fact that he hadn’t even known that he was being controlled while it was happening, hadn’t been able to notice it. Everything had seemed fine. 

Is he really out of the curse? Is he really thinking for himself again, or is this just another layer to it? What-- what terrible things are he doing right now, without even realizing that it’s strange and terrible? 

He can hear his own breathing, loud and unsteady. He has to control himself. _He_ controls himself. He tries to make his breathing go even and steady. His own lungs won’t obey him. 

“Ffffine,” he says, and he doesn’t sound fine, he sounds breathless, the word dragged out of him as if by a barbed fish hook. His eyes are hot and stinging. He tries to swallow the building, cresting panic down. “F-- fine, fine, _fine…”_

A sob tears out of him, out of his control, and he _hates_ it. 

Martin doesn’t know what to do. He’s still in Jon’s flat. He could leave it, but he doesn’t know whether or not to lock it behind him. He can see Jon’s keys in a little bowl by the door, but what if Jon wants to come back? But what if someone breaks into Jon’s flat if he doesn’t lock it? It’s unlikely, but it could happen, and then on top of _everything_ else Jon’s going to have to deal with having been robbed too. 

In the end, he dithers in the entrance hall, not knowing what to do, and not feeling allowed to walk further into the flat than he already has, to sitting down on the couch. He’s not supposed to be here. Jon told him where he lived while he wasn’t himself, welcomed him in when he couldn’t think clearly. 

He’s sitting on the floor when there’s a knocking at the door. He startles and yelps, standing up so fast he almost loses his footing. 

“Jon?” he asks. 

“No,” Sasha says, opening the door and poking her head in. “So, Jon’s not here, then?” 

Of course Jon wouldn’t knock at his own door. He puts a hand to his chest, feeling his own pounding heartbeat and tries to calm back down. Having Jon suddenly come back-- god, he’d feel like an intruder, even though he never actually left. Was he supposed to leave? He probably is, right? Jon has to come back to his own flat eventually, but he won’t want to see Martin. What is he thinking, staying here? He has to leave before he comes back. 

“I have to-- wait, you said-- you don’t know where Jon is?” he asks, and his thoughts feel directionless, slow, scattered. 

Sasha steps fully inside Jon’s flat, letting the door fall closed behind her. “I don’t. We’ve tried calling him, but he isn’t answering. I know you said he wasn’t at his home, but I thought I’d come and check just in case he’d come back by the time I got here. We don’t really know where he could’ve gone. Tim says he’s never really mentioned friends or family outside of work, and I haven’t noticed anything like that either. Tim’s gone back to his own flat, in case Jon might have gone to visit him. We’re kind of out of ideas, if you couldn’t tell.” 

“He didn’t bring his phone,” Martin says. Worry roils in his gut. Does Jon even have anywhere to go? He needs to have somewhere. Martin made his flat feel unsafe, just by being here. “He didn’t even put on any shoes. He just-- he left as soon as the curse broke.” 

“How did you even manage that? What did you figure out? _How_ did you break the curse?” she asks intently, and dread scrapes at the inside of his chest. How he broke the curse, what it means-- he hasn’t thought about it. He hasn’t let himself think about it yet. He’s managed so far, because he doesn’t know if Jon is okay yet, and that’s a very distracting worry. But he’s going to have to think about it soon, and then-- “Nevermind.” 

“What?” he asks, looking up at Sasha. 

Sasha’s frowning, and looking away. “It doesn’t matter how you broke the curse,” she says firmly, as if she’s trying to convince someone. “Just that you did it. It can-- it can wait. What matters most is finding Jon, making sure that he’s okay. Are you sure he didn’t bring his phone with him?” 

“I didn’t see it,” he says. “He didn’t stop to take anything before he left.” 

Sasha steps further into the flat, further than he’s dared, and he follows her. She doesn’t look like she feels like an intruder at all, as she looks around. Martin tries to keep his eyes to himself. He’s already seen too much of Jon that the man obviously would’ve never willingly shared, if he was himself. 

“If he did take his phone with him, that’d be useful,” she says. “I could maybe narrow down his location, using that. Not by a lot, but it’d help.” 

“Okay,” Martin says, and tries to help look for the phone, without also taking in too much of Jon’s flat. Trying not to linger on the titles printed on the spines of books, or the words on stray papers on the kitchen counter. 

“How long ago did he leave?” Sasha asks. 

“I, um, I called you guys about… ten minutes afterwards?” he guessed. He’d needed to just… hyperventilate a bit, first. 

“Alright. So it’s been almost an hour, then, and he’s still not back.” 

Anxiety jolts inside of his stomach like a horse kick. “Do you think something’s happened to him?” 

“Hard to say. I’ve got as much information as you, Martin. He’s probably… distraught. For all we know, he had a panic attack on a sidewalk and someone called an ambulance for him. Hey, that’s an idea, actually. I’ll call some local hospitals, check around for him.” 

“Right,” he says thinly. Hospitals. He doesn’t like hospitals. It would be better for Jon to be in one of those, though, than just… out there, walking the streets late at night without so much as a jacket. Hopefully not for something serious, though. Like-- like not paying attention to where he was going because everything must be so upsetting for him right now, that he just walked straight into traffic. “God, I can’t stop thinking about the worst things.” 

“Damn it,” Sasha mutters, and he flinches a bit. Then he realizes that it’s not him she’s reacting to. She’s holding up a familiar phone, a few years outdated. “He left it behind after all.” 

“Oh,” he says. “Shit.” 

“Yeah, I guess that would’ve been too convenient. God forbid anything is easy.” 

He crosses his arms, and digs his fingers into his sweater. His heart is beating so fast that it feels fragile, fluttery. Jon is upset. Jon could be lost. He could be hurt. He could be anywhere. And there’s nothing Martin can do to help, from where he’s standing. 

“Martin,” Sasha says. He startles and looks at her. “Hey. It’s gonna be okay. Remember, we didn’t think we were gonna be able to break the curse without having to do what the rose wanted? I mean, we acted like we thought there had to be a different solution… but we were really just hoping, and it kept feeling like a dumber and dumber hope each day. But it worked. There _was_ another solution and-- and you found it. We thought we weren’t going to be able to do it but we did. We’re going to find Jon, and he’s going to be okay, even if we don’t know how we’re going to do any of that right now. We’ll figure it out, together.” 

He has to swallow down a lump in his throat at that, which is weird. Sasha’s being _nice._

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Y-- yeah, you’re right. It’s going to be okay.” 

“It will,” she says firmly. And then, more quietly, “... I’m sorry, Martin.” 

He drags his gaze back up from the floor where it had sunk. “What for?” 

Sasha’s mouth twists with discomfort, guilt. She looks away. “When I called you and Tim back to my flat and did a whole damned parlor scene-- I’m sorry. I was so busy thinking about the whole case, that I didn’t really stop to think about anything else. I probably could’ve done that whole thing… better.” 

That feels like a long time ago, weirdly, even though it’s only been hours. He remembers distantly the crushing weight on his chest, the way it had felt like he couldn’t get a full breath in, as Sasha said that the rose made the victims not matter. Made what they wanted not matter, made them into objects of desire, made them into the target’s perfect dream and nothing else. That Jon’s wants and desires had been scooped out of his head, and been replaced with Martin’s own. 

Martin _hates_ that rose. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s-- it’s fine, Sasha. I don’t think there’s any way I would’ve taken that well. It’s just… awful.” 

“You know that this isn’t your fault, right?” 

He’s saved from having to come up with a response to that by Sasha’s phone ringing. She answers it quickly. 

“You’re on speakerphone,” she says. “There’s no Jon here, just Martin.” 

_“Jon’s not here either,”_ Tim says, and he sounds so tense, so tired. “ _Should you go back to your flat too, in case he visits you instead?”_

“That feels unlikely, but fine, it’s not like there’s any better place for me to be,” she says. “I was thinking that I could call all the local hospitals, see if anyone matching Jon’s description has ended up there. Just in case.” 

_“Okay. Do you-- Martin, how did he seem?”_

Jon’s expression flickers through his mind again. The sheer _horror._

“He-- he seemed really… really shocked. Upset. He just ran out before he-- he was gone really quickly.” 

_“D’you think he might… do something bad?”_

The pit of Martin’s stomach feels like it’s full of ice water. He’s been trying not to consider that. Other reasons for Jon to not be in the hospital, reasons that don’t have anything to do with panic attacks or accidents. “He wouldn’t do that, would he?” 

_“... No,”_ Tim says, and he sounds firm, even though he was the one who brought it up. _“No, that’s not like Jon. He wouldn’t. Don’t worry.”_

Sasha looks almost shocked by it even being brought up, like it hadn’t even occurred to her. “I-- I’m going to go, Tim. Call me if Jon visits you, or you think of anything.” 

_“Yeah. You too. Good luck with the hospitals.”_

“Thanks, Tim.” Sasha hangs up. She fiddles with her phone for a moment, biting at her lip, before she looks up at Martin, her brow furrowed. “You know, I was so focused on figuring out how to break the curse as quickly as possible, I hadn’t really thought about the _after_ of it.” 

“Yeah,” Martin agrees tiredly. “I kind of thought about it sometimes, but only vaguely. Dealing with Jon while he was cursed was just… so exhausting that I didn’t really have a lot of energy left to think about the future.” 

And, he doesn’t say, he’d been trying so hard not to think about the moment that the curse would break, because he couldn’t really picture it happening. Not in a way that wasn’t… He’d been trying so hard not to let himself consider the fact that things might end in the worst way possible. He’d been so desperate not to let things get that bad, so scared that it would anyways, that he hadn’t stopped to think that even if they found the miraculous solution, Jon would still have to deal with a whole week’s worth of memories of being cursed being dumped on his head all at once like a bucket of ice water. 

Jon was violated. That’s true, isn’t it? Even if Martin tried to avoid touching him in a way he wouldn’t normally want at all cost, just _being_ the way he was was inherently violating. Just having his thoughts warped like that must be so… god, Jon _can’t_ be okay after all of that. And now he’s alone. That feels so wrong, like a jagged rock inside of his chest. Jon shouldn’t be alone, now of all times, after all of that. 

But he can’t have Martin. Martin would do the opposite of help, by being there. He must be the last person in the world that he wants to see. But he has to have _someone._ That’s all Martin wants. He just wants to make sure that Jon’s somewhere safe, with someone decent. Tim or Sasha or just a nice _nurse,_ please. 

“Go get some rest, Martin,” Sasha says. “If we don’t find him by tomorrow, we’ll… send in a report to the police or something, I guess. We’ll figure it out. We can figure anything out, clearly.” 

“Yeah,” he says, and manages to give her a tired smile even though his heart feels so heavy. “We can.” 

Jon goes and sleeps in the cot he keeps in the storage room for late nights. He wakes up with a sore back and a groggy mind. When he remembers the things about the rose, he briefly dismisses it as an absurd dream. Then he _really_ remembers and he lies there for a long moment, stiff and horrified as it sinks in. He keeps scouring and going over the memories, as if they’ll fall apart like paper mache on close inspection, and he’ll realize that ah yes, it really was a dream after all, he was right the first time. 

It’s real. 

He really did kiss Martin, and he groped him, and he begged for him to fuck him, and he forced his way into his home, and he climbed into his lap, and he-- 

He has to stop for a long moment, and force himself to think about nothing but the cracks in the ceiling. Then he gets up, and he finds the spare outfit he has in a file drawer here, along with the toothbrush and toothpaste. He makes himself ready for… a day of work. Because it’s Tuesday. He works on Tuesdays.

He stands there in the Archives, wearing his sweater vest, presumably painfully early in the morning, and he feels _absurd._ He’s going to… what, go and record a statement about-- about goddamned ghosts? He’s going to make a note asking Sasha to look into it? He’s going to go over Tim’s follow up work from yesterday’s file? He’s going to go over cross references in his office until Martin comes in with a cup of tea-- 

No. He can’t. 

Jon goes and does the first thing he can think of, instead. He marches out of the Archives, past the empty entrance desk where not even Rosie has arrived yet, up the stairs, up, up, through that door-- 

“I’d prefer it if you’d knock, Jon,” Elias says, not even startling as Jon practically slams his office door open. Jon stops and stares at him. He’d come marching up here to Elias’ office to… speak to Elias, of course. It’s still a shock to see him here, sitting behind his desk. Does he normally come this early? Jon thought he was the only one who ever came in before seven. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Is there a problem?” 

I,” he says, and then opens and closes his mouth for a bit, like a fish on land, presumably making an absolute fool of himself in front of his boss. 

“Yes?” Elias gently prompts him after a moment. 

“I want to,” he says, and then his voice stops. Elias looks at him in attentive silence, his hand holding a pen poised over some half filled forms, the picture of interrupted work, waiting for him to get it out so he can get back to it. Jon tries again. “Elias, I’m afraid I have to…” 

He can’t get the words out. It’s like his throat just-- _won’t._

It’s a deeply terrifying feeling, not being able to say what he wants to say, his own body rebelling against him. 

“... If you want to come back later after you’ve articulated your thoughts, then that’s fine,” Elias says after the silence hangs too long, Jon’s mouth working uselessly. “You’re my Head Archivist, my door is always open for you. Although do please notify Rosie first so she can fit you in the schedule.” 

“I-- I want to--” Elias is still looking at him expectantly, now with a concerned tilt to his eyebrows, so he clacks his jaw shut and just nods, his face burning, his stomach cold, and he turns around and leaves. 

“Have a good day,” Elias pleasantly calls out after him as he goes. 

Tim doesn’t get a lot of sleep that night, even though he feels bone deep exhausted. He has this worry that he’s going to fall asleep, so deeply asleep that he won’t even hear Jon if he knocks on his door, if Sasha calls him saying that she found him. 

Finding out that Martin found a way to knock Jon out of the curse while he had his back turned should be amazing. It _is_ amazing. He just hadn’t pictured Jon running out into London immediately afterwards. 

He gets it. Really, he does. Jon was obviously raised to believe in all of that ‘never show vulnerable emotions around others, it’s rude and unseemly’ stuff. When he’s upset and Tim can’t distract him out of it with dumb jokes, he prefers to be alone. That’s fine. Of course he’d want to be alone after all of _that_ came crashing down on him all at once. But Tim had been picturing it happening… in Jon’s office, maybe, the door locked between them. Or even Jon fleeing back to his own flat, taking all of his accrued vacation days all at once and just holing up in there until he felt like he could show his face to the light of day again without wanting to die of sheer embarrassment. Tim would know where he was. That he was safe, at least, while he was dealing with all of that. But instead he… doesn’t. He has no idea where he is, and he has no idea how he’s doing. Badly, obviously, but how badly exactly? 

It’s exhausting. He feels like he’s been holding on by his fingernails all week, just barely keeping it together in the face of something absurd and terrible, going into work and trying to think of practical, reasonable solutions like any of this is normal or okay or worth reacting to in any way but incredulous, furious screaming. He’d been gritting his teeth and forcing himself to keep it together because he had to keep it together, just until they found a solution, just until they could figure this out, and then he could breathe out and just… exist, for a while. And instead, Jon’s curse is broken and they’re _still_ not done, he _still_ can’t stop worrying, because of course he can’t! Of course more bad things are happening! 

It’s stupid. It’s stupid and unfair that this is happening, that any of it happened at all, and it’s _really_ stupid that Tim’s so weirdly unprepared for this, like a punch to the face he wasn’t braced for. Of course Jon was going to be upset, of course there was going to be aftermath to work through. He always knew that. He just… 

He just wishes that he could know where Jon is. That’s all. 

Tim’s dipped back into shallow sleep, something that’s been happening on and off all night, when his phone rings. It startles him so badly that he literally falls out of the bed as he fumbles to pick it up and answer it. 

“Wha?” he says, after he finally manages to swipe at the green button. He squints at his bedroom window, and sees that it’s actually morning, at this point. “Jon? Sash?” 

_“It’s Martin,”_ Martin says, in a sort of high pitched, frantic way. _“Tim I found him! I, I came into work because-- because I didn’t know what else to do? And it's a weekday, so? A-- anyways, he’s_ here. _I can hear him pacing and talking to himself in his office.”_

“Holy shit,” he says, blinking dumbly. He smacks himself in the face. “God, of fucking _course_ he’d go to work. Fuck. Shit! I’m an idiot.” 

_“I’m going to leave before he notices I’m here,”_ Martin whispers into the phone, like he’s hiding in a closet from a creeping serial killer in a horror movie. “ _I-- I really didn’t think he’d come into work literally the_ day _after-- after all of that. That’s ridiculous! Tim, please come and talk to him. After I’ve left. I’m leaving now.”_

There’s something kind of worrying about that, Martin avoiding Jon like him getting a single glimpse of him is a crime, but Tim’s still half asleep and also he would _really_ like to see Jon, uncursed and himself and _okay._ For a relative value of okay. 

“Roger that,” he says, putting on his trousers one handed as he holds his phone up. “Call Sasha and let her know too? She could be trying to hack into CCTV cameras by now for all we know. God, she is going to _lose her mind_ when she realizes he was just at _work.”_

 _“Right,”_ he says, at a more normal volume now. Out of the Archives by now, presumably. _“Right, right, right. Okay. You’ll take care of him?”_

“Of course!” 

_“Great! I, um, bye then.”_

And he hangs up. Tim wonders if that’s something he should be worried about. Probably, yeah. He’ll… get to it later, just in a bit. Jon first. 

“Jon’s been found,” he says out loud to himself as he gets dressed, finds the small bits and ends that he needs before leaving his flat. “Problem solved! Or, one problem solved. See? Progress is being made. This is great. Things are getting better.” 

It doesn’t feel like it. It feels more like the old problems are turning into new, different problems instead of getting solved. He puts his jacket on and tries not to let himself think like that. Jon’s himself again, and that’s _fantastic,_ no matter what. Everything’s going to be okay. 

It has to. 

Martin leaves the Magnus Institute. It feels more like he escapes it, really, even though he’s almost entirely sure that Jon never even noticed he was there. It feels a bit like that one time he went to a party while he was a teenager and drank one beer and left after half an hour because he felt uncomfortable, and then worried himself sick that his mum was going to smell that one beer on his breath, so he brushed his teeth three times and didn’t drink again until he was in his twenties. Terrifying and guilty, but with an edge of almost dizzying relief to it that he just barely managed to actually avoid getting caught. His mum never realized that he’d had that one beer. Jon didn’t realize that Martin was in the same building as him. He got _away_ with it. 

He laughs to himself as he walks away, and it comes out sounding a bit hysterical. He stifles it self consciously. Thank god that Jon didn’t see him, honestly. The expression that had been on his face the _last_ time he’d seen Martin flickers through his head, and the giddy hysteria in his chest dies immediately, snuffed like a candle. Yeah. Thank god Jon didn’t see him. That’s the last thing he needs, after everything. 

And Martin would honestly rather punch himself in the face than ever see that expression on Jon’s face again. So if what he has to do to avoid that is to just… avoid Jon forever? Fine. He can do that. He’ll-- he can figure it out. Maybe he can get transferred back to the Library department. It’s not like he’s been in the Archives for long, just a few months. It’s fine. It’s going to be fine. 

Martin takes the tube back home. He calls Sasha, letting her know as well where Jon is. He listens to her swear for a while, gets her to promise that she’s going to look after Jon, and then hangs up. He gets home. 

And… that’s that, then. He knows where Jon is. He’s somewhere safe, somewhere more or less private. He’s got someone decent to be with him, to look out after him and take care of him. He’s got _two_ decent people to do that for him, that aren't Martin. That’s great. Excellent. 

Meaning that there’s nothing to do but think about how Martin finally broke the curse. 

There hadn’t been any magical potion or blood sacrifice or Satanic ritual. He’d just… said no. But that can’t be it. That can’t be the way the curse got broken. There has to be something else, _anything_ else that Martin did or said that night that fixed it. 

He must have said no to Jon at some point this week, right? He must have. Jon’s been throwing himself at him, even though it’s the last thing he would ever actually want. Martin’s been holding him back, keeping away at arm's length, staying back, coming up with excuses… he must have said no. He must have. It can’t have been that easy all along. That obvious, that stupid. Martin can’t have put Jon through all of that, just because he never thought to just say _no,_ at least once. 

His hands are shaking. He curls them up into tight knuckles, and makes himself breath even and steady. 

He sits there, and he thinks, and he thinks, and he thinks. No. He must have said no, at least once. No. Right? He must have. He tries to remember. And remember, and remember, and remember. 

He must have said no before. He must have. 

Of all the things Sasha thought she’d have to do today, going to work was somehow at the bottom of that list. No, it wasn’t even on the list at all. Trespassing, blackmail, hacking, and breaking and entering were all on the list as things she might find herself having to do today to find Jon, but not that. If it had been, maybe she would’ve thought to actually try and get some damned sleep. 

As it is, she grabs an energy drink out of her fridge and slams it back before leaving her flat. She looks, no doubt, like absolute shit. Usually she kind of cares about that, dresses up a bit for work to show that she can be professional, she’s competent, and oh if there’s any promotions and raises up for grabs then she should definitely be considered for them. But somehow she doubts that anyone down in the Archives is going to give a single damn about what she looks like right now, and currently, the rest of the world sort of doesn’t matter. It feels like her world has shrunk, a bit, to be all about this one thing, this one crisis. Just for now. Just while it’s still ongoing. Once things calm down and are calm and stable, she’s going to take a _nice_ long vacation and regain her perspective. 

For now though, Sasha goes into work. She literally bumps into Tim on her way through the door, the two of them coming in at more or less the same time. His eyes look bruised, bloodshot. 

“Slept well, I take it,” she says. 

“I’m just really glad that this is over now. The worst part of it, anyways,” he says, opening the door and holding it open for her like a gentleman. Usually he does it with a bit of overblown flair, a dramatic bow, but he’s apparently too tired for theatrics today, too tired to try and hide the fact that he really does want to hold doors open for her, even without a veil of joking irony. 

“Yes, provided that Jon doesn’t have a complete meltdown, then that was probably the worst of it,” she says, walking in. Tim grimaces and makes a pained noise, but follows after her. She’s just trying to keep her expectations reasonable, that’s all. There’s really no way to react to what Jon just went through gracefully, after all. Even a perfectly proportional response would be… a _lot._

She wonders if he’s going to cry. Oh, she really hopes that he isn’t going to cry. If he does, can she just quietly sneak out of the room as Tim takes over? Would that be okay? She just-- she’d get in the way, probably. God, she feels so much less prepared to deal with the aftermath than she had been to try and solve the actual problem. 

She hadn’t hesitated for even a moment after she got that call from Tim letting her know that Jon had been found. She’s profoundly tired, and all she wants to do is just confirm with her own eyes that Jon is alive, well, and perfectly not cursed, and then she wants to go and collapse for the next twelve hours somewhere dark and quiet. Now though, as she approaches Jon’s office door, her steps… slow. She hadn’t stopped to think about it. How Jon may be reacting right now. She… can’t even picture it. Because how does anyone even begin to react to something like that? It’s so _much._ She has no idea how _she’d_ act after something like that happening to her, much less someone else. 

She has no idea what Jon is like right now, has no idea what’s behind that door, and so she has absolutely no way to brace herself for it, to prepare herself to solve the problem. That’s… daunting. With anything else, it would be exciting, maybe, intriguing. People, though. People are different. She should open the door--

Tim beats her to the punch. He moves past her and practically lunges for the doorknob, twisting it and opening the door all in one impatient, hurried go. “Jon?” he says, in a way that very much projects that Tim hasn’t been able to know whether or not Jon is okay for the last twelve hours and he’s very eager to change that. 

Jon screams. It’s a short, startled noise, more like catching someone naked in the shower than something a victim in a horror movie would produce. He flinches towards the door so hard that he almost loses his balance and falls, instead having to reach out a hand towards the wall to brace himself. He looks at them wildly, eyes wide, hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through and pulling at it for hours now, his clothes creased, the sleeves rolled up his arms, and his tie undone. 

“... Right, knocking,” Tim says belatedly. “Sorry. Keep forgetting.” 

“On a scale from one to ten, how badly do you want to fuck Martin?” Sasha asks. 

Tim makes a choking sort of noise, but she keeps her focus on Jon. Who _grimaces,_ a mortified, disgusted expression twisting his face for a moment. 

_“Zero,”_ he says very, very firmly. 

_“Jon!”_

Before she knows it, Tim’s crossed the distance between them and Jon, and he’s swept the man up into a hug that leaves the toes of his shoes brushing the floor. Tim spins in a clumsy little circle, his mouth pulled into a wide, gleeful smile, and Jon dangles from his arms as gracelessly as a cat that’s been unexpectedly picked up. 

“Tim!” he says. “Put me-- put me down this instant!” 

Tim laughs, giddy. He lets Jon go, puts his hands on his shoulders and takes a step back as if to just really take in the view of him. His broad smile softens at the edges into something less boisterous. 

_“Really_ glad to have you back, boss,” he says, sincerity coating his words. “That other guy was kind of a lot.” 

Jon looks up at Tim, startled, before he turns his face away, hiding it with a cough. “Yes, well,” he says awkwardly. “It’s good to be… to be sane again.” 

Getting to hear Tim laugh like that makes her realize all at once that she hasn’t heard Tim _properly_ laugh this entire time. Not in this carefree, happy way with nothing lurking beneath it or looming dark in the distance. Just pure relief. She hadn’t even noticed, somehow. 

But it’s over now. See, it’s over now. Jon doesn’t want to sleep with Martin, and Tim can laugh without shadows. It really is going to be okay. Her heart starts to beat lighter. 

That’s when she notices the rest of the room. 

“Um… Jon?” she asks. “What’s this?” 

She gestures broadly at Jon’s office, to indicate _this._

The room is a bloody mess. There are papers and files strewn across the desk and taped up on the walls, with chicken scratch notes in blue pen in the margins or circled around paragraphs. There is, she realizes with some incredulous amusement, _actual literal red string_ connecting some of the clusters of pages taped to the wall. She didn’t know that people actually _did_ that. 

“It’s all of your research on the rose that I could find in your desks. Also, I went through your desks. I’m sorry but it was for work purposes. Oh, this is good! Sasha, where is the rest of it? There has to be more. There aren’t even any Statements here.” 

“I’ve been keeping most of it at my place,” she says. She walks closer towards the wall to actually read some of the things taped there. “I don’t recognize this?” 

“Oh, yes, that part isn’t-- I found that on my own.” 

“What is it? It doesn’t seem relevant.” It’s… a printed out screenshot from Google Earth, of the outside of a small house. Or it’s just a very bad picture. Next to it is a picture that looks like it could’ve been nabbed from a social media account of a smiling woman-- a woman she recognizes, she realizes. She hadn’t really been paying attention, the brief few moments Sherry Ennulat had walked past her desk towards Jon’s office, and then past it again on her way out. She’d been busy with work, and Martin and Tim had handled her. She’d looked into her though, afterwards, when it became clear that that had been a _very_ important moment. 

She’d tracked down the address of the home the Ennulats have moved to. She has their phone numbers, their emails, their social media accounts, and she knows where Mr. Ennulat works. Mrs. Ennulat is more of a freelancer, so instead Sasha just found all of her work history from the last year even though it’s most definitely completely useless. 

She… hasn’t used any of it. Martin had told her about how Ennulat wanted to move on, didn’t even want to talk about it or answer questions. None of the former victims of the rose had really _wanted_ to talk about what had happened to them. None of them had been pleased when she brought it up. Some much more so than others. But she called and visited and persuaded and wheedled and interrogated them anyways. Because it was necessary. Making people uncomfortable to some degree was necessary, to be able to continue following the rose’s trail, to find answers that could help Jon. 

It hadn’t been necessary with Ennulat. They already knew who gave her the rose, and he was the one who knew where he’d gotten it from. They already had Ennulat’s statement. Maybe they could’ve asked more questions, clarified some things, gotten details, but… it wasn’t necessary to be able to continue the case. That was why she hadn’t acted on any of the information she’d managed to dig up. That, and the simple fact that Ennulat is the most _recent_ victim. It must be a raw, open wound for her, and Sasha isn’t good at being delicate and sensitive with people. Never has been. She can try, but she’s not a natural talent. 

She’d still kept everything she’d dug up though. In case… in case leads dried up in the future, and she became desperate enough to start grasping at straws. If she was going to give up, she was only going to do it after exhausting _every_ other possibility first. 

The picture of the smiling woman is of Ennulat. 

Everything here is information that Sasha has already gathered herself. Less of it, really. It’s strange how… unhinged it looks, suddenly, now that it’s not gathered into neat little organized electronic maps on her laptop, but instead printed out and made tangible. Creepy. She shakes her head a bit. 

“It’s the woman who gave me the rose,” Jon says, just as she realizes it on her own. “The statement giver. She’s moved, apparently, but if I can just track her down then I can ask her some questions--” 

“Questions?” Tim asks. “Why do you need to ask her questions? Martin figured out how to break the curse.” 

And _that’s_ definitely not driving her a little bit nuts _at all._ That _Martin,_ Martin Blackwood, figured out the solution before _her._ The need to take Jon by his shoulders and _shake_ him until he tells her how Martin did it is very, very strong. She swallows it down. She’s smart. She _knows_ that that’d be an asshole move. It can wait. Even if waiting for an answer that’s right there _itches_ at her. 

“Yes, well,” he says, and he suddenly looks shifty now. “I would just like to know how it-- how it was for her. To contrast and compare. See if there’s any differences or similarities.” 

He is definitely lying to her. Or at least, he’s not telling her the full story. He’s hiding something. Honestly, she was sort of expecting that he’d either be a complete mess or desperately pretending like none of the rose stuff had ever happened, frantically repressing it. One or the other. This though, this is… unexpected. He’s definitely not calm and balanced, not entirely acting like himself, but… it’s weird. He’s being weird. 

But hey, if what he needs to keep himself vaguely functional and not-screaming-and-crying is to obsessively research what happened to him? She supposes that makes sense. She’ll help him out. 

“Oh, well contacting Ennulat for _that_ isn’t necessary. We’ve literally tracked down dozens of former victims of the rose. I’ve got extensive notes on all of the interviews I had with them, but if you have any follow up questions that I didn’t already ask myself, I’ve already got their contact info.” 

“I would like any and all information that you’ve gathered on this-- this case,” Jon says. “But yes, I may take you up on that offer for more follow up questions at a later date, thank you.” 

He hasn’t even read what she’s already got, and he’s already sure that he’s going to have to ask follow up questions. She’s not sure if that’s insulting or intriguing. 

“It’s back at my flat, so…” 

“Can you go and get it?” he asks her immediately, his gaze rapt on her. 

Whatever he needs to deal with this, she reminds herself. 

“Sure,” she says. Jon can make it up to her later by giving her a _generous_ vacation later. 

He smiles at her, and it looks a little bit… fragile, in an unhinged sort of way. Like the only thing keeping him together is caffeine and obsession. She feels something inside of her soften at the sight of it. He looks like he’s on the verge of breaking. 

“Thank you, Sasha,” he says, in that painfully sincere way he does sometimes. 

“It’s no problem,” she says, and you know what? It isn’t. 

Tim stays behind with Jon, as Sasha leaves to go and get a whole suitcase’s worth of research from her flat. Jon doesn’t seem to notice, going right back to muttering to himself and fluttering between different piles of papers and tapping away at his laptop without even bothering to sit down in his chair. Yeah, he’s full on in red strings mode. Tim hasn’t seen him like this before often, but it’s happened. This isn’t the worst it’s ever been, but that’s just because he hasn’t had the chance to stay up for three days straight yet. 

He’d been trying to brace himself for any of the ways that Jon might be reacting to all of this, but somehow obsessively researching what had happened to him hadn’t been on the list of things that he’d considered. In hindsight, it should’ve been. It feels very _Jon,_ now that it’s happening. Just like how fleeing to his workplace was so obviously like him in hindsight, and yet it hadn’t occurred to Tim at all while he’d been tossing and turning in his bed all night, wondering where he was. 

He’s not some sort of expert Jon-wrangler, but who is? He’s decent at it, at least. He knows that Jon should be dragged away from this whole obsession sooner than later, because he’s not going to leave it be on his own, and that way lies only sleep deprivation and increasingly irrational theories. Even if that means Jon’s gonna have an… uglier reaction. He has to face it sooner or later, right? 

“What are you hoping to find out?” he asks him, and Jon flinches and looks at him with wide eyes. So he really had forgotten that Tim was still in the room, then. “You said you wanted to see if there were differences and similarities between you and other victims of the curse. Why? What does that help?” 

“I-- I would simply like to know the way it functions,” he says, drawing himself up in that posture he’s been holding himself in ever since he got promoted. That straight spined way that screams ‘I am a professional, respect me’, and mostly just makes Tim want to find a way to make him relax. 

“We know how it functions,” Tim says. “The victim pricks themself on the rose, and the curse takes hold of them. It makes them…” he trails off for a moment, wondering if this is for him to say. But… Jon’s the one who’s suffered the most out of them all because of this thing, he’s the one who got cursed. He deserves to know everything about this thing. That, and the first time Tim decided to withhold information because he was afraid that he’d be betraying someone’s trust doing so-- yeah, so it turns out that that hadn’t been the right call. He tries not to think about that. “It makes the victim fall for anyone who has feelings for them, makes them want them in the way that the target wants to be wanted. The curse gets broken when… well, you and Martin know about that part, I guess. How did that happen, by the way?” 

“But see, that doesn’t make sense!” Jon says intently, ignoring Tim’s question. “According to your notes that I found, _several_ of the victims had partners of their own. Did none of the victim’s partners have feelings for them? Did the pining targets all desire the victims more than their romantic partners did? Were all of the victims in loveless marriages and relationships?” 

Tim thinks about how the widow had _wept_ when he’d asked her about her husband, and she’d had to tell him that he was dead. How… apathetic the coworker had seemed in comparison when she talked about the very same man being dead. “I-- I don’t think so, no.” 

“Right! That would be very unlikely. So, why didn’t any of the victims fixate on their significant other instead? See, we don’t have this whole thing completely unraveled yet, obviously, there’s still more to find out--” 

“But why?” he interrupts him. 

Jon stalls. “... Why?” 

“Why?” he repeats himself. “We’ve-- Martin, he already figured the _important_ part out. How to break you out of it without… without, you know. You’re free now, and we’ve got the rose under lock and key. We can give it to Artefact Storage now, with notes about how it works, how to avoid activating it. It’s basically already neutralized, dealt with. Not a threat to anyone any longer. So, there’s literally no reason to keep digging into it. The reason we were all so obsessed with figuring out how the rose chose who would be the target was because we knew so little, and we were hoping that any new information we found could help us figure out how to break the curse without satisfying it. So what if we don’t exactly have the perfect, accurate answer? We know everything we need to. It’s handled.” 

“Is it?” Jon asks, the question small and quiet, so different from his loud fervor from earlier. Fear passes over Jon’s face like a cloud, and the sudden vulnerability makes Tim take a step forward, like he wants to hug him again. Less of an enthusiastic reunion this time, but more like he wants to hide him away under his arms. Jon clears his throat and looks away, crossing his arms, and the moment is broken. 

“What do you mean?” Tim asks. 

“I mean, is it really over? Just like that? Every single other victim you’ve come across had the curse on them broken in the… the traditional way. I didn’t. Does that… affect me in any way? Are there lingering traces? Am I not entirely free of it?” 

“Jon--” 

“And another thing, how many of your questions to the victims were focused on their condition _after_ the curse was broken? For all we know, maybe they’ve _all_ experienced side effects! If there are any, then I should know about it! I have to _know--”_

Jon bites himself off once Tim’s hands land on his shoulders. He squeezes them once, gently. Jon pants for breath. 

“You know, this whole thing has been _really_ awful,” he says, trying to smile as he does. “You-- you really don’t have to go and look for more bad shit, if you feel like this is all too good to be true. It’s really not. You’ve-- we’ve all had a _long_ week. You deserve for it to be finally over. It’s not too easy. So stop trying to find the hitch, because I’m pretty sure there isn’t one. You can just… start the work on moving past this whole thing.” 

“That’s not what this is,” Jon says, looking down at his own feet. “I’m not being-- being _paranoid,_ or looking for flaws and threats where there aren’t any.” 

“What do you mean?” Tim asks, and something like dread knots in his stomach. “Did something happen? Is something wrong?” 

“I…” Jon says, and he says it so quietly that it’s almost a whisper, like he doesn’t dare to say it too loudly. “I think I’m still cursed.” 

Sasha grabs all of the relevant notes she has to the rose case in her flat. She ends up having to dust off a backpack she finds in the back of her closet to do it, along with her usual bag that hangs from her shoulder and rests her against her hip, most likely massively fucking up her spine in the longrun, but hey, it matches her aesthetic. She’s very, very tempted to stop for a brief power nap while she’s there, but there’s still answers that she’s hungry for, and she knows that if she just powers through for a bit longer then she’ll get to that point where she’s so tired that she loops back around to feeling awake instead. 

So instead, she drops by Martin’s flat on her way back to work. It’s a damned shoebox of an apartment, but it’s close to the Institute, at least. She shoots Martin a text and he lets her into the building. When he opens the door, he looks like… 

“So, none of us really slept, then,” she says. 

He gives a humorless little laugh, and runs a hand through his hair, letting her into his flat. He’s the sort of tired where it leaves him looking paler, washed out. 

“How’s Jon?” he asks her, which is a reasonable first question. 

“Coping surprisingly well,” she says. _“Shockingly_ well, really. Suspiciously well. I’m not saying he’s cheerful or relaxed, but… I was expecting for him to be more volatile than this, I guess.” 

“Oh,” he says. “S-- so, he’s okay?” 

“As much as he can be,” she says. “He’s upright and talking. _Very_ interested in fully understanding what happened to him, which, I guess I would be too. That’s why I’m here, actually.” 

She lets her overfull bags drop to the floor and makes her way to Martin’s couch. Martin hesitantly follows her, sits down across from her. 

“What do you mean?” he asks. 

“How did you break the curse?” she asks him. 

She’s been biting back that question for so, so long. Ever since the very moment Martin called them and told them about Jon. But she hadn’t asked it then, and she hadn’t asked it later. Because Jon was missing, Jon probably wasn’t okay, and Martin didn’t look all that okay himself either. She’d _just_ trampled all over Martin’s feelings after forgetting herself for a moment. She regretted it, she was sorry. But how much does that really mean, if she did it a second time immediately afterwards, this time while knowing that what she was doing was probably insensitive? She’d been able to justify so many things to herself during the case, by reasoning that she needed as much information as possible to fix Jon. She doesn’t need to know how Martin broke the curse. What matters is that it was broken. 

But now-- now _Jon_ wants to know as much as he can about the rose, wants to be able to understand it, to fully comprehend its rules and tricks and exactly how it works. To cope, presumably. She can understand that. The artefacts she’d always been the least scared of, back during her Artefact Storage days, had been the ones whose rules she was confident that she knew inside and out. The ones she didn’t know, couldn’t predict? _Those_ were the dangerous ones. 

Asking Martin for the answer just to satisfy her own curiosity would be selfish. Asking Martin for the answer so she can pass it along to Jon so he can use that to maybe find a bit of peace? That has to be okay, right? It has to be. 

Except Martin’s frozen up a bit at her question. She frowns, wondering if he’ll start back up again if she pokes him. 

“Martin? You did _something_ to get him back to himself, right? It didn’t just happen out of nowhere.” Unless it was on some sort of time limit? Prick yourself on the rose, and if the curse isn’t satisfied within X amount of days it wears off? That would be… unsatisfying, but she thinks she could live with it. It’s only thanks to all of their hard work that they managed to keep Jon off of Martin and alive as well for so long, after all. 

“No,” he says. “It-- it didn’t happen out of nowhere. I think I… I think I said something that snapped him out of it.” 

She leans forwards at that, her curiosity aflame. “There was a trigger phrase to get him out of it? What was it? How did you figure it out?” 

“I didn’t figure it out,” he says. “I didn’t-- I just stumbled across it, really. It was right after you told me and Tim about… about how exactly the rose works. Making the victim want what the target wants. It was really-- really _disturbing,_ really upsetting. So, I went to go and visit Jon. I wasn’t really thinking? I just felt like I had to see him right away. And I did, and he started hitting on me like he always does and… I just _snapped._ I shouted at him. And, and I said _no._ I told him I didn’t want to sleep with him.” 

She waits a moment for him to continue. “... And then?” 

He looks up at her at that. “What?” 

“And then what did you say? How did you break the--” The pieces snap together in her mind’s eye. _“No.”_

He grimaces and nods. 

Sasha told Martin that Jon wanted Martin because Martin wanted him. That Jon wanted for Martin to dominate him because Martin wanted to dominate him. And then Martin went and found Jon and told him that he didn’t _want_ him. He told him no. 

“That,” she says, “is so fucking _stupid.”_

“It’s-- yeah,” he agrees. 

“No! No fucking way! You must’ve said no to him before that.” 

“Did I, though?” he asks her. He looks very tired. “I’ve been thinking about it for… a really long time, and. And I don’t think I ever did, actually. I don’t think I outright just rejected Jon even once. I always just told him that it wasn’t right, that he didn’t really want this… I didn’t say that _I_ didn’t want it.” 

_Because I did want it,_ he doesn’t say, loudly. 

Martin sniffs once, and rubs quickly at one of his eyes. Oh god, wait, no. She can’t be the one who complains and gets upset here. Martin won’t push against it. He’s just going to lay down and agree with everything she says, he’s so obviously ready to feel like the worst person on earth. 

“Well,” she says. “It’s not _that_ unreasonable that we didn’t try it. He wasn’t listening to reason in any other way, why would he make an exception for respecting your consent? And just saying no is so-- so simple, so easy, it being the answer seems ridiculous, somehow.” 

“Even more ridiculous that I didn’t try it,” he says flatly. “Not even once.” 

“Martin,” she says, and she makes her voice go stern. “Listen. I am the smartest person on earth.” 

That startles a bit of a surprised giggle out of him, and she grins at him. 

“At least, I’m confident I’m the smartest person in London, okay, it can’t be that hard to crack the top ten in this city. So, if _I_ didn’t think to try ‘just say no’, then it’s okay that you didn’t either. Tim didn’t think of it either.” 

“You and Tim didn’t have a cursed person trying to sleep with you against their will, though. I bet you would’ve thought to try saying no at least once, if you were in my position.” 

“There’s no way of knowing that now,” she says firmly. “Anyways, it still doesn’t really make sense to me. Just because you _said_ that you don’t want to sleep with Jon, does that make it true? Was all that was needed your words, with no deeper meaning attached to them? Martin, do you know? Do you really not want to sleep with Jon any longer?” 

“I-- that, that’s a complicated question to answer.” 

“Why? Isn’t it just yes or no?” 

“I don’t… I don’t want to do anything to seriously hurt or upset Jon. I don’t want to take advantage of him, or pressure him into doing something he doesn’t like. Sure, he’s-- he’s beautiful, and I’m really attracted to him, and the idea of-- of _being_ with him, like that, is-- yeah. But… I don’t think I want that in reality any longer. Because it’s not real, there’s no way it would really happen in a way that Jon liked too, not without magic messing with him, and I don’t want that either. It’s stupid, but until Tim told us that Jon’s asexual there was still some part of me that thought that Jon maybe… that he might be able to have sex with me and enjoy it some day, no matter how unlikely it was. But he can’t and he won’t. So. I don’t ever want to have sex with Jon, because there’s no way he’d _like_ it. And I don’t want to hurt him.” 

She takes that in for a moment. “So… even if you’d told him no at some point during all of this, it probably wouldn’t have worked anyways. Since there was some part of you that was still hoping. You wouldn’t have fully meant it.” 

He looks startled at that. “I-- yeah, I guess so? Maybe. I… I should have meant it, though. If I’d said it at some point before this. I already knew that Jon doesn’t want to sleep with me. Not just because he’s ace, but because he’s Jon and I’m-- I’m _me._ He doesn’t like me. That’s obvious.” 

“I could tell that you didn’t want to sleep with Jon while he was affected by the curse,” she says. “That was true the whole time. It doesn’t matter if he got you worked up sometimes, you were always upset every time he did something you know he wouldn’t have done if he was fully himself. The only thing that changed when Tim told you that Jon’s ace is that you decided that you don’t want to sleep with Jon _ever,_ even while he’s not cursed. Because there’s no way he’d really want it, at any time. Right?” 

“... Right,” he agrees with her, belatedly. “It’s not-- none of this is Tim’s fault, though, for not sharing earlier. I get why he didn’t tell us--” 

“Oh no, of course! That’s not what I’m trying to say here. Honestly, if what was needed to break the curse was for you to tell Jon no and really _mean_ it, then Tim telling us right at the start might not have even helped. You didn’t know yet that what _you_ wanted played such a big role in how the curse worked. You visited Jon and rejected him all on a-- an emotional whim, didnt you?” 

“Yes. Yeah, I did.” 

“Well, there you go. We figured out the miraculous sex free solution to breaking the curse by doing a _lot_ of work and research, and then tripping and falling across the finish line. It was two thirds hard effort and one third pure luck.” 

That’s a bit annoying, honestly, that she didn’t get to have the eureka moment and figure it out. Not even Martin had had that moment, and he was the one who broke the curse! But at least she was the one who revealed the really big puzzle piece to him that helped spur him towards the answer. That’s going to have to be enough for her. The goal had been to fix Jon, after all. He’s fixed. That’s great. So what if they sort of stumbled their way into it? She’ll take it. 

Martin smiles at her. There are still shadows smudged underneath his eyes, he still looks frayed at the edges, but at least she managed to knock him out a bit out of his self blame spiral. 

“If you don’t mind me asking,” she goes on, because now that she’s _started_ interrogating him, it’s kind of hard to stop, “how didn’t you notice that he was parroting all of your kinks right back at you?” 

Martin sputters at that, flushing and looking away. 

“I’m just saying! If I had a foot fetish, and then my unrequited crush suddenly started begging me to kiss their feet, I like to think that I’d think that there was something weird about that. I don’t have a foot fetish. That was just an example.” 

That gets another little laugh out of him, which makes her feel strangely accomplished. Maybe because they’re talking about something pretty uncomfortable and upsetting, if either of them stop to think about it too deeply. Which they won’t, if she has anything to say about it. 

“I guess-- I’m not really _comfortable_ with that… that side of me. I don’t like what it says about me. So I ignore it a lot, try and forget it even exists. Which has been really hard this week, with Jon shoving it in my face every single day, but-- I still didn’t really connect the dots, that Jon only wanted to do things that I’ve fantasized about. I kind of on _purpose_ didn’t notice it.” Something guilty and sad shadows over his face at that last part. “Maybe if I had--” 

“Don’t like what it says about you?” she interrupts him. “I don’t think it really _says_ a lot about you, Martin, except what you like in the bedroom. It’s not like you wanting to hold people down while you--” Martin flushes and squirms uncomfortably, so she decides to tone it down a bit at the last moment, “do stuff with them meaningfully reflects what you’re like as a person. Trust me, I’ve met some real _douchebags_ who’re only interested in doing the missionary and then falling asleep right afterwards. Vanilla doesn’t equal good, so by that logic, kinky doesn’t equal bad.” 

“I-- I want to boss people around, though. Push them around. People shouldn’t do that to the people they care about, especially not-- especially not like that.” 

“Oh, Martin,” she says sympathetically. “You were raised Catholic, weren’t you.” 

“I-- what? How did you know? What does that have to do with--” 

“It’s the unnecessary guilt over stuff that doesn’t actually matter all that much. Trust me. You should probably read some books about this. I read _the Ethical Slut_ once, it was good. I could look into it for you.” 

“What-- I don’t need books about BDSM!” 

“It sounds like you kind of do. Anyways, I should be getting back to work. Remember, wanting to do kinky stuff in bed doesn’t mean you’re bad! I’m the smartest person in London, you agreed with me about that, which means I’m right! Bye!” 

She picks up her bags and walks backwards towards the door out of Martin’s flat, talking as she goes. Martin looks a mixture of flustered, embarrassed, and confused. She grins and waves, and he waves back at her without losing the bewildered expression on his face, and then she leaves. 

Jon had been doing such a good job of staying focused on logistics, on looking for answers. But then he had to explain to Tim why he was doing it, explain why he thinks he’s still cursed, that it’s not over-- and now he feels… bad. Strangely fragile, like he might crack and crumble into little pieces if anyone puts pressure on him. Which is ridiculous. He’s solid. 

He wishes Tim would stop shooting concerned glances at him, though. Like he thinks he’s not okay, which is somehow making him feel like he isn’t. 

“Did you try doing it by email instead?” he asks. 

“Yes,” Jon grits out, and tries to focus on the papers strewn on his desk in front of him. “I couldn’t make my fingers move.” 

He can feel Tim gearing up to ask another question, which is when Sasha comes back, thank goodness. She tosses a stuffed full backpack at his feet like an offering, and begins taking bundles of files out of her bag. 

“There,” she says with finality. “That’s everything I’ve got on the rose and all of its victims and targets. Read it to your heart’s contents, because I’m fucking sick of looking at it. Now that this is over--” 

“Um,” Tim interrupts her. Jon is pathetically grateful that he won’t apparently have to explain himself a second time. Instead, he picks up the offered backpack and zips it open, beginning to quickly go through what’s in it, mentally categorizing what he’s going to properly read through first. “About that. I’ve been talking to Jon and… it might not be over, actually.” 

“What,” she says flatly. She turns to Jon. _“What._ Jon. You said you didn’t want to fuck Martin! You said you wanted to do it a zero amount!” 

“And that’s true,” he says indignantly, because it is. He’s never even had to try having sex to know that the entire concept just… does not sit well with him at all. For him personally. There may be a few aspects that sound sort of appealing-- the closeness, the intimacy, tender touches with a loved one-- but he knows that the parts that he does want don’t count as sex. “It’s just… my behaviour is still being controlled to some extent, in a different way.” 

“He can’t quit,” Tim explains, which he’s grateful for. It had been hard for him to say it out loud to Tim. He’d been scared that he might not be able to get the words out, might not be able to tell anyone about what’s happening to him, that his throat would just close up around the word again. But he’d gotten it out. 

Sasha stops. “When you say he can’t quit,” she says carefully, “what do you mean exactly?” 

“I mean that I went up to Elias’ office this morning to resign, and no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth. It was impossible.” 

“That’s… huh. Okay. Why would the curse do that?” 

“I have a theory,” he says. He feels strangely relieved that she believed him that quickly, that she’s just accepting it. Now that he thinks about it, it had been that easy with Tim as well. 

“I love theories,” she says firmly. “Let’s hear it.” 

“We found a way past the curse without doing as it wanted, and it doesn’t like that. That’s not supposed to happen. So, it’s preventing me from disentangling my life from Martin’s. I’m being stopped from quitting my job, because as long as I have it I’m going to keep seeing him every single day, which is going to increase the likelihood that something might happen. It won’t, not unless the rose has more tricks up its sleeve-- which it might-- but it’s more likely that something it wants is going to happen if I’m in Martin’s presence than if I move to Australia.” 

“You were going to move to Australia?” Tim asks. 

“It-- it was just an example.” In all honesty, he hadn’t thought out what his next move after quitting would be even remotely. It had been a bit of an impulse decision. He has no new job lined up, his resume is severely out of date, and he’d only be able to afford about three more months of paying rent at best. He’d just-- he’d wanted to _do_ something. He’s spent a whole week not doing anything at all, besides being a problem and an obstacle and a victim and a _burden_ that everyone around him had to take care of and work around. 

“So,” Sasha says, “the rose knows you didn’t do what it wanted for you to do, so now it’s using the little lingering power it has over you to force you to stay in Martin’s life in the hopes that what it wants might still happen.” 

“Essentially,” he says. 

“The rose is pretty stupid, in that case,” Tim points out. 

“It’s not a person,” Sasha says. “I mean, it is a supernatural artefact, so it _might_ be sentient, but I’m operating under the assumption that it isn’t. This all might just be some weak after effects of it still trying to poorly fulfill it’s creepy function.” 

“That’s the reason I wanted to reach out to other former victims. I want to ask them if they’re being prevented from removing themselves from their target’s lives in any way. I might not be the only one who's still suffering after effects like this. If anyone else has gone through this, maybe they can help me. Maybe there’s a way to make the last of the artefact’s hold on me go away, or it will fade away with time, or something. I need to know.” 

“That sounds like something that they’d mention during the initial interviews though, right?” Tim asks. 

“Not necessarily,” Sasha says. “I really wasn’t focusing my questions on what happened to them _after_ the curse.” 

“Still though, I feel like they’d bring it up themselves. Also, Mrs. Ennulat _did_ successfully move away from her creepy neighbour.” 

“It indeed could be that none of the other victims went through something like this. My theory rests on the fact that the rose is dissatisfied because I didn’t do as it wanted. All of the other victims that we’ve been able to find _did.”_

“Or it could be the duration that’s at fault,” Sasha suggests. “Literally no one has suffered the curse and survived as long as you have, Jon. It took an elaborate and contrived set of circumstances, so your situation was unique. Is unique. Maybe being affected by the curse for so long, longer than it’s probably meant to be placed on anyone, has had some… side effects.” 

They all sit in silence for a minute and just… mull that over. The silence is broken by a jaw cracking yawn from Tim. 

“Oh, don’t you’re going to--” Sasha stops to yawn. “--set me off too.” 

He belatedly notices just how _tired_ the two of them look. While he was obliviously obsessing over Martin this entire week, they were running themselves ragged trying to find a way to fix him. And now he’s been yammering at them about half baked theories and more work to be done, work that he could be doing himself. 

“The two of you have done more than enough for today,” he tells them. “You look like you’ve barely slept. Go home, get some rest.” 

“And you’re going to stay behind and keep working on this, huh?” Sasha says. 

“I-- well, yes, as a matter of fact,” he says, feeling defensive, even though he’s doing _nothing_ wrong. 

“Nah,” Tim says. “No way. If we have to go home early and call it a day, then so do you, boss.” 

“I don’t see why--” 

Sasha yawns again, and stretches. “God, I’m tired. So tired. _Exhausted._ If only I could go to bed, after staying up all night worrying about my friend, calling hospitals and asking around after him.” 

“You did what?” 

“But you can’t,” Tim says to Sasha. “Because your cruel boss is making you stay at work.” 

“What a tyrant,” she agrees. 

Tim yawns, loudly. _“So_ tired. Poor us.” 

He holds his hands up. “Alright, _alright._ Fine. I get it. I’ll go home and rest for the day. Are you happy?” 

“Yes.” Tim gives a satisfied grin, but also he does groan a bit as he stands up, in a way that isn’t theatrical or exaggerated. Sasha moves slowly as she gathers her things, the way his grandmother would sometimes on cold days. The two of them really had stayed up all night, worrying about him. Guilt and something else twinges inside of his chest. It hadn’t been his intention to worry them. He hadn’t been thinking about them. It had been hard to clearly think about anything at all. 

“Good,” he says quietly. He gets ready to leave as well. On his way out of the office, however, he does manage to slip a few files into his bag. Working from home is technically resting, isn’t it? Tim and Sasha don’t protest it, anyways, so they must not have noticed. On their way out, Sasha hands him the keys to his own flat. 

“Locked it up for you,” she says. 

“Ah, um, thank you,” he says, startled. 

Just yet another way his assistants have looked out after him while he’s been too _careless_ to do it himself. His hand curls and tightens around the keys, pressing the sharp jagged bits into his palm. Before they all seperate outside the doors of the Institute, Tim catches his elbow. 

“Wait,” he says. “Before you go I just want to-- you know that we don’t think any less of you, right?” 

“Oh, yes,” Sasha says. “It didn’t even occur to me that that needed to be said, but yes, what he said. Any of us could’ve fallen victim to the rose, and all of us would’ve acted just as… silly, while under its effects.” 

They both look so sincere. Jon blinks rapidly. Clears his throat. 

“That’s-- that’s very generous of you both. Thank you.” He has to say it quietly, because he’s not sure that his voice won’t break if he tries to say it normally. 

Tim pats him on the back, firm and solid. “Not at all, boss.” 

Jon retreats, because he’s not sure how much more kindness he can take. On his way home he thinks of Tim’s hand on his back, catching his elbow, gathering him up in an exuberant hug. It’s-- he’s being more _physical_ than before, Jon thinks. More casual, friendly touches. Is he even aware of it, or is he just that relieved that Jon is acting like himself again? 

It’s not strange to casually touch your friend. What _is_ strange is how conscious of it Jon feels. Like every single point on his body that’s been touched today is warmer than the rest of him, the traces still lingering there like a phantom. 

He hadn’t realized until all of this, how rarely he’s touched. How rarely he touches others. 

He’d touched Martin so much while he was cursed. He’d wanted it so badly, at all hours of the day. To be touched by him. And none of it had been enough, none of it had been satisfying, it had all just been an appetizer for what was to come, the _more._ And now he’s left like this, like himself again, and it’s like an ache that he’s had for so long, become so used to that he forgot that it was even there, it’s _back,_ just indulged enough to come back alive with a loudness and a hunger and a desperation because it’s not sated yet, he’s still starving. The places where Tim touched him prickle with warmth, and the rest of him feels so cold. 

He shudders, and crosses his arms tightly. He doesn’t _want_ to want to be touched, not in any way. He can’t trust it. Is this want _him?_ Or is it the rose tugging at his strings again? He has no way of knowing. 

He arrives at the station closest to his home, and he shakes his head. Examining every single thought he has, trying to see if he can follow the source back to his own mind or something else, something _external--_ he shouldn’t do it here, at least. And he has files to read, as well. He goes home. 

He’d somehow been expecting to see Martin standing there in the entrance hall with an arm helplessly outstretched towards him, a look on his face like he’d broken something and was horrified at himself for it, just the way he’d left him. Like he’d frozen in time as soon as Jon left. 

He isn’t, of course. Martin isn’t here. That’s-- that’s good. Jon has no idea what to say to him when he sees him again. He has _no idea._

Martin wants him. No, he _wanted_ him. He’d made it very, very clear that he’d been disillusioned after being harassed for a solid week. That was how the curse had broken, after all. Martin stopped wanting him. That’s good. For both of them. Jon honestly doesn’t know how it came into his head to want _Jon_ in the first place. And now Jon gets to be himself again. Martin wanted him, which is baffling, and he doesn’t want him any longer, which makes more sense. 

Something deep inside of his chest _hurts._

Instead of thinking about that, he gets to work. He gets out the files, and-- oh, had he packed a recorder as well? He doesn’t even remember doing that. Well, might as well. He picks one of the files to go through first, settles down, and starts the tape recorder. 

“Statement of Sophie Simes, regarding her relationship with an unsettling client. Original statement given… Sasha did not deign to write down the date, but some time in the last week. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

“Statement begins.”

And he reads the statement. He reads it steadily, evenly, perfectly. The tape recorder whirs silently, taking it all in. Eventually, Jon comes to the last words. 

“... I’ve stopped accepting sessions with him, no matter how much he offers to pay. I’ve blocked his calls, selected his emails as spam, and the last time he approached me in public I _hit_ him. I was shaking so badly afterwards that I couldn’t hold a pen properly, but I think he got the message. He’s going to leave me alone. He’d _better_ leave me alone. If he doesn’t I… I don’t know what I’ll do to him. Whatever it takes to get him to stay away, I suppose. 

“End of statement.” 

Jon breathes. This is the part where he’s supposed to summarize the additional notes included in the file, the follow up his assistants made. 

Instead Jon breathes harder. It’s like he can’t get enough air into his lungs, no matter how much he swallows down. He rests his elbows on his knees, bending down, and just breathes. It’s not even and steady, the way his voice was as he read out Sophie Simes’ statement. It’s shaky, shallow, too loud. Can’t control his own breathing. Can’t control himself. Can’t _control--_

“Breathe,” he tells himself faintly, and he sounds so winded. “J-- j-- just breathe, it’s not com-- _complicated.”_

It _feels_ complicated. It feels impossible. The recorder whirrs on, patiently taking in his labored breathing. He clumsily reaches out and fumbles at it until he finally manages to depress the button to make it _stop._

His hands are shaking so badly. Like Simes after she hit her client. He curls them up into fists and squeezes his eyes shut, breathes. 

When he was a child, he’d sometimes catch sight of a spider, and he’d be terrified of the idea that it might be there to find him and tell Mr. Spider where he was. He’d freeze up, and then he’d go and hide somewhere, and try and be quiet. But his breathing would be so loud that he’d have to muffle himself with his own hand, so that he wouldn’t be heard. 

When he was in uni, he’d sometimes have nightmares, and he’d wake up with his breath harsh and rattling in his chest. He’d hold his hand over his own mouth to try and stay quiet, because he didn’t want to wake Georgie. Sometimes, the Admiral would hop up onto the bed and nestle close to him, and he’d-- he’d focus on that

He misses the Admiral. He wishes-- he wishes that he had something else to focus on right now, something warm and soft and kind. 

But he doesn’t have any of that. Instead he just keeps breathing, and eventually it… tapers off. His chest aches like it’s been bruised, but it’s over. He clears his throat, wipes at his face, and sits up straighter. 

He decides not to read any of the other files he brought with him for today. They apparently… hit a bit too close to home, for now. He fumbles for a moment for something to do, something distracting and yet productive, to get the last of the lingering trembling out of his fingers. He settles after a moment on checking his inbox. He remembers being able to focus on work when Martin wasn’t around, but Martin was usually around during his work days so he hasn’t exactly been getting a lot done in the last week. Things have most likely been piling up. 

The newest email he finds is… it’s from Martin. 

He opens it. 

He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but… it’s very clinical. Very professional. Nothing personal in it at all, really. Just an employee asking their employer for some sick leave. 

Jon grants it. 

He doesn’t even want to look at Jon after how he’s acted. That’s understandable. 

A terrible, undignified sort of noise rises up out of his throat, coming from the bottom of his chest, and he can’t stop it, can’t bite it back. His eyes are hot and stinging, and-- and he’s crying now. _Damn it._

Not _again._

Without even talking about it, Tim and Sasha both go home together. His flat is just closer, and they’re both dead tired, eager to get off their feet as quickly as possible. It’s not weird, to shrug off their shoes and jackets, turn off the lights, and both collapse into the bed together without saying much of anything. He falls asleep with the familiar scent of Sasha’s perfume hanging close in the dark, another warm, breathing body in his bed. It’s nice. 

When he wakes up, his teeth feel fuzzy, his eyes gritty. 

“God,” Sasha groans. He opens his eyes to slits, just enough to see the white glare of her phone light up her face. “Fuck.” 

“How long did we sleep?” he mumbles into his pillow. 

“Twelve hours.” 

He groans. He still feels tired. Maybe that’ll shake off though, if he just gets up. He doesn’t want to get up. 

“It’s eleven PM,” she whines. “My sleep schedule is _wrecked.”_

Tim groans from deep in his chest into his pillow, a muffled noise of protest. 

“Let’s just… let’s just lie here for a bit longer,” she says drowsily. He makes a vague noise of agreement. 

They lie there for a while. He drifts, but he doesn’t fall back asleep. Eventually, a thought makes its way into his head. A question rising up as if from the bottom of a lake, bobbing insistently on the surface. He clutches at the sheets and doesn’t move. He feels Sasha’s presence in the bed, her warmth, her breathing, her perfume. He wants to reach out and tuck his arm around her middle, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t ask the question. It doesn’t leave him alone. He keeps not asking it. 

He decides to ask a different one instead. Maybe that way, it’ll leave him alone. 

“Jon brought something up after you left,” he says, breaking the dark quiet in his flat. Sasha makes vague, intrigued noise after a moment. _Go on_ , the noise says. “The rose makes the victim want whoever wants them, in the way that the target wants to be wanted. But Ennulat was married. Other victims were married, or they were seeing someone else, someone who wasn’t the target. And they seemed happy, a lot of them. Or-- they seemed loved. They seemed close. Why didn’t any of the victims fall for their partners?” 

The silence stretches out for a long moment, but Tim swears he can _hear_ Sasha thinking. 

“My theory is that it works on want,” she says eventually, slowly, working it out as she talks. Usually she’s more rapid fire when she’s theorizing, mouth struggling to keep up with her lightning quick mind. But the room is dark and warm, and she’s sleepy after having woken up from sleeping twelve hours straight. “Not love. And why would you want something that you already have? That’d be like yearning for the sweater that you’re already wearing.” 

“So it’s a longing for what you don’t have?” he says into the dark of the room. He doesn’t feel at all like drifting back into sleep any longer. The question sits inside of his head, present and obtrusive like a rock in the middle of a path. He doesn’t pick it up, doesn’t speak it. 

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I think that holds up.” 

He turns around in the bed, until he’s facing in her direction, even if he can’t clearly see her in the dark. 

“What about the best friends?” he asks her. “The victim who slept with their best friend. Don’t they have each other?” 

“Maybe not in the way that the best friend wishes that they have each other?” she suggests. “Huh. Now that you bring them up, that’s interesting. Remember, the target resisted, but the victim was stronger than them, so it happened anyways. But the way the rose works, that means that the target wanted that, right?” 

“Martin wants Jon, but he resisted too,” Tim points out. “Could be a similar situation. The target knew that the victim would never actually want that, they knew that something weird was going on.” 

With a click, Tim’s bed lamp lights the room up. He blinks in the sudden brightness, caught off guard. He’d felt… safe, talking to her about this in the quiet dark. Sasha sits up in the bed, and he sees that she’d forgotten to take her makeup off before she fell asleep. She’s frowning thoughtfully into the middle distance, no longer all that sleepy any longer either. 

“That’s interesting,” she says. “I-- do you know how Martin broke the curse, Tim?” 

“Not really,” he says. “I-- I asked but Jon sort of dodged the question.” 

“Martin said no,” she says. “Jon came onto him, and Martin rejected him, told him that he didn’t want him and he _meant_ it.” 

“Oh.” 

“We found dozens of victim and target pairings,” she goes on, leaving him behind to digest that. “They consisted of people who knew what the rose did and were happy about it and didn’t care about what the victim truly wanted, and of people who didn’t know why their crush suddenly became so interested in them out of nowhere but they were just so happy that they didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, so they went along with it and were horrified later. The best friend pairing is one of the few unique ones that don’t fit into either category. The target knew that something strange was going on with the victim, so they resisted. The victim was stronger than the target, so the resistance was futile and it happened anyways. But the victim should’ve stopped if the target just said no. Didn’t they say no? Did it just not occur to them to try, like it didn’t for Martin? Or did they try and it didn’t work? I should check. I should call then and ask and make sure--” 

He reaches out and grabs her elbow, stops her from getting out of the bed. 

“Sasha,” he says. “No.” 

She looks at him. “I’m just going to quickly--” 

“It’s over. You don’t have to.” 

“Jon wants to--” 

“You figured it out. You understand how the curse works. It’s been broken, Jon’s free. I’ll tell him about your ‘wanting what you don’t have’ theory later, okay? The best friend probably just didn’t think to properly say no, like Martin didn’t either. You don’t have to confirm it and be completely sure. You don’t need to keep poking away at this case. You’ve done all that you can, all that you need to. Please, rest.” 

“I just slept for twelve hours.” 

“That’s not what I mean. Come on, we have everything we need. We should stop bothering all of those people now, let them get back to moving on. Help Jon move on.” 

Something vulnerable passes over her face, and her shoulders slump. 

“I’m not good at that,” she says. “I can’t… I don’t know how to help him with _this_ part. Researching and trying to figure out a solution was so hard, and so much easier than this. I don’t even know where to… I don’t know what to say to him. What if I mess it up? If what he needs to feel better is as much information about the rose as possible, then I can do that. I can find all of it for him.” 

“I don’t think he needs as much information about the rose as possible. He’s just… it’s the _day_ after, and he’s trying to deal with it.” 

“He’s still being affected by the rose, though,” she says doggedly. “He can’t quit his job. We need to see if any of the other victims have suffered after effects.” 

“Okay,” he says. “But we _don’t_ need to ask the best friend if they can remember the exact wording they used when they tried to convince the victim that they shouldn’t have sex. We don’t need to ask people about other things, just what happened to them afterwards. And then we leave them alone, and we just try to help Jon. Even if it’s harder than just doing research.” 

There’s a moment of silence. And then she sighs, in a resigned sort of way that lets him know that she’s relenting. 

“Fine,” she says tiredly. “Fine, you’re probably right. No more poking at the rose case, except for what’s necessary. I’ll stop.” 

“Thanks,” he says. He lets go of her, and she flops back into the bed in defeat. 

She’s so… she’s so sweet. In her own way. She wants to help so much it hurts. 

Tim doesn’t ask the question. 

The next day, Martin isn’t there. It’s not a surprise. He’d emailed Jon asking for some leave, after all. He’d granted it. It’s entirely expected. 

He closes the door to his office and he doesn’t make himself a cup of tea. He finds work to focus on, work that _isn’t_ related to the rose. He’d rather not… lose himself like that again, especially not at work, where Tim or Sasha might catch him at it. 

He works. He works and he works, and eventually, his door opens. It’s Sasha. 

“So,” she says, foregoing a greeting or a good morning, “I called around, asked some of the former victims if they suffered from any after effects at all, especially what you’re going through. Unfortunately, everything they described to me just sounded like symptoms of PTSD at most, not anything supernatural.” 

“I see,” he says. 

“Jon? Jon, you’re staring at a wall.” 

He blinks, makes himself properly look at her. Makes himself smile at her, and then stops when he feels how unnaturally it sits on his face. “I’m sorry, I was just thinking. This… this isn’t surprising. None of the other victims mentioned suffering from any after effects before, after all. It was always a longshot. So, what I’m going through really is because of the-- the unconventional way the curse was resolved.” 

“Or the duration.” 

“Yes, or that. The difference doesn’t matter, I suppose. I still can’t… well, it’s not so bad is it? If this is all that the lingering effects of the curse makes me do, making me keep my current job, then… it could be worse, couldn’t it?” 

“It could fade away with time as well,” she suggests. 

“A nice possibility to consider,” he says. “But probably not one to rely on.” 

Not that he knows what to do next. That was the only idea he’d had, really, asking if any of the other victims had run into anything similar. They hadn’t. Meaning, he’s walking blind. Excellent. Exactly what he needs. 

God, what is he going to do next? What can he do next? There has to be something. 

“Oh, also, Martin hasn’t shown up yet today,” Sasha says. “Which is, uh, kind of worrying, so Tim is--” 

“No need,” he says. He’d forgotten to tell them. “There’s no need. Martin-- he’s just asked me for some sick leave, that’s all. He’s taking a few days off. Perfectly understandable.” 

“Oh. Well… you should probably do that as well, thinking about it.” 

“I won’t.” 

“Yeah, I know. You’d probably lose your mind, trying to take a vacation.” 

He shoots her a weak glare. She gives him an innocent smile. 

“Well, let me know if anything changes, regarding the curse. Or if you need anything. Doesn’t even have to be curse related!” 

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he says dryly. 

She leaves. 

Another deadend. This time, it seems like he’s out of paths to take. Except he needs to find out more, this can’t be _it._ He has to find a way to shake the last few shackles off of himself, he _has_ to. He doesn’t even know if he wants to quit any longer, but he wants the option. He needs the option. 

There are the statements from the people affected by the rose, of course. He could read those. See if there’s anything there that the others might have missed. He could possibly bring a unique perspective, having personally suffered from the curse. 

He remembers the awful way he’d lost control of his breathing, after he was done with Sophie Simes’ statement. That horrible, hollow feeling in his chest. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to read them. 

But what other option is there? 

He picks up one of the statements. It feels a bit like he’s touching something he’s not supposed to, like… like wet hair in the shower drain. Unpleasant. But he needs to know how to fix this, and it’s all he has. He opens it up. 

A recorder clicks on, but he doesn’t notice it. 

“Statement of Kevin Kaner, regarding an affair with his sister in law. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

“Statement begins.”


	6. blooming anew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin comes back to work after two weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration was done by [tsundernova!](https://tsundernova.tumblr.com/) Check their stuff out!

Martin comes back to work after two weeks. 

He’s pretty sure that he could’ve asked for more sick leave. He could’ve asked for sick leave for the next year, and Jon would’ve granted it with no questions asked. It’s not like he’d ever want to see Martin’s face again, after all. But Martin comes back anyways. The very moment he steps into the Magnus Institute, it feels like an oppressive weight lifts from his shoulders. It feels like he can _breathe_ without something pressing down on his chest. An instant relief. 

Relief, quickly followed by disconcertion. He doesn’t shrug it off, exactly, but he knows there isn’t anything he can do about it right now, so he puts it to the side. He says a greeting to Rosie, who gushes about how happy she is that he’s finally doing better although he’s pretty sure she’d say that to just about any person in the building besides Jon, and he goes down into the Archives. 

An echo of that profound relief hits him when he sees that the door to Jon’s office is closed. It’s not like they can avoid each other forever while working in the same department but… putting it off for just a bit longer is good. 

It also makes his chest ache with the need to see Jon again, to see if he’s okay, but he tries to ignore that. 

“Marto!” Tim says, looking surprised. “You’re back.” 

“Ah, I-- yeah. Hi.” He smiles at Tim and Sasha, knowing that it comes off as fake, brittle. That’s fine. Trying to fake genuine happiness right now would just be transparently false, no matter how convincing he’d manage to twist his tone of voice or the curve of his smile into being. “Feeling better now,” he lies. 

Well, he _is_ feeling better now, actually. He’d only been feeling worse and worse before, though. Which should mean that he’d want to stay home even longer, make some actual use out of all of the sick leave he was requesting, but-- somehow, every single instinct in his body had cried out to go back to the Institute instead, like resting in his bed was what was making him sick in the first place. He’d put it down as his brain just desperately trying to concoct excuses for him to go and see Jon, but now… It’s weird. It’s definitely weird. 

Maybe it’s just… psychosomatic. Or something. 

“How are you doing?” Sasha asks him, looking over him like she’s inspecting him for tells. He’s been feeling pale and clammy for a while now, so he’s glad that he took a shower this morning. He hopes he doesn’t look too much like the warmed over garbage he’s felt like lately. 

“Fine,” he says, and stops himself from asking how Jon’s doing. He desperately wants to know, but-- asking about him behind his back feels weirdly… invasive. Like a stalkerish ex harassing old mutual friends for updates, obsessively going through their social media, trying to pry their way back into a life that had been severed from theirs. The last thing he wants to be with Jon is invasive. There’s been more than enough of that. “Just fine. How about you?” 

Best way to avoid talking about himself and how he’s doing is to quickly turn the conversation away from himself, and _keep_ it turned away. 

“I’m losing my mind, thank you for asking,” she says. 

“Oh,” he says, blinking. “Sorry? I-- I thought that things would’ve calmed down a bit, now that there isn’t an emergency to focus on.” 

Tim and Sasha trade grimaces, and Martin feels himself go tense. 

“Right?” he says. “It’s all fixed, isn’t it?” 

The idea that Jon _isn’t_ okay-- no, they would’ve told him if anything was seriously wrong, right? They would have. They must have. 

“Well, it’s not an _emergency,”_ Tim says. “Not like what we were dealing with before, no, don’t even worry about that.” 

“Jon’s dealing with some aftereffects from the curse,” Sasha explains. “We’ve been looking into it for the past two weeks but we might as well have been looking into it for two hours for all of the information we’ve dug up--” 

_“Aftereffects?”_ he repeats, at least a couple octaves higher than his usual voice. “I’m sorry, did I hear you right? Jon’s suffering _aftereffects,_ and you didn’t even call to tell me? What sort of aftereffects? What’s the problem?” 

There is a very large part of him that wants to stomp over to Jon’s office and rip the door open immediately, but he steels himself against that urge. Jon does _not_ need to be suddenly confronted with Martin out of nowhere, like a horror movie jumpscare. 

He’d texted him last evening after changing and making up his mind about whether or not to do so about half a dozen times, letting him know that he’d be coming in today. Jon deserved at least a warning, a chance to brace himself for it, or maybe even to just hole up in his office for the day. And sending the text had at least locked Martin into coming in today, instead of putting it off for yet another day. 

Jon hadn’t replied. That’s fine. 

“You kind of seemed like you needed a break,” Tim says apologetically. “And some space? It’s really not as bad as whatever you’re probably coming up with, Martin.” 

“Jon can’t quit,” Sasha says, before he can respond to _that,_ because really, he doesn’t need a _break_ when Jon’s suffering from _aftereffects._ “He’s tried several times now, and it’s like there’s something stopping him each time. Considering that he was _just_ cursed by an artefact that was controlling his actions, we have an inkling that it might be related.” 

“Jon tried to quit,” he says, because that’s somehow the part that sticks with him. That Jon was willing to part with his job, the job that he’s been doing for four years now, the job that he just got a promotion to department head in. He was ready and willing to give all of that up for the sake of never seeing Martin again. 

There’s a sort of crushing, hollow feeling in his chest, like there’s a small black hole there. Which is overdramatic, and _stupid._ Because, really, this shouldn’t be a surprise at all. And he doesn’t have any right to feel _hurt_ by it, by Jon wanting to get away. 

It hurts anyways, though. 

“Yes, and it’s not working,” Sasha says. “The working theory is that it’s a result of the curse being broken without satisfying it, since none of the other victims have experienced anything like this, apparently. Why it’s making him not quit his job, of all things, is weird, though. I would’ve expected for it to be more centered on you, or sex or submission or something like that. Jon seems to think that the curse is trying to keep him in your life by not letting him quit the job he shares with you, so that there’ll still be a _chance_ of the two of you ever sleeping together, however unlikely. But that feels a bit like a stretch, you know? The curse wasn’t especially… complicated, when you get down to it. It didn’t really make plans or schemes, it just made Jon want to fulfill your desires and left him to try and figure out the rest. What do you think?” 

“I,” he says, because that’s a _lot_ all at once. He’s been trying to mentally prepare himself for this all morning, for days, for whatever may happen, however Jon may react to seeing him again, how he might act around him, what he might say to him, if he says anything at all. Trying to brace himself. He hadn’t been prepared for _this_ at all. He’d thought it was over, completely over, and all that was left was to try and pick up the broken pieces, as painful and difficult as that would be. Shards cutting up his hands with each attempt. 

Jon wants to quit, but he can’t. He’s being stopped, he’s being forced to stay here. Where he’s going to have to see _Martin._ Martin had tried so hard to get Jon back to himself, and he’s _still_ being controlled in some way. Where does he even begin? 

“We’ve had a lot longer to think about all of this than Martin,” Tim says to Sasha, shooting him a quick, concerned glance. “Let’s give him a bit to think about it before--” 

“Tim, Sasha, I’ve thought of--” Jon says, opening his office door, and then he looks up from the papers he’s holding, spots Martin, visibly bites his tongue, and drops everything in his hands to the floor. He looks _shocked._

Martin realizes, too late, that Jon may have not responded to his text because he _didn’t see it._

“Hi,” he says weakly. 

It’s been two weeks since Jon granted Martin indefinite sick leave. Two weeks since he’s seen or heard from him in any way. At this point, he was expecting to see a very polite resignation letter cross his desk before he’d ever see him again. But there he is, plain as day, dressed for work in one of his cable knit jumpers, fit for the chill of the basement the Archives resides in. He looks like a deer in headlights, a frantically polite smile stealing over his face. 

Jon feels every single muscle in his body lock in place at the sight of him. He holds his breath, and waits to lose control of his thoughts, his feelings, his actions. 

“I-- I sent a text message?” Martin says after a long, silent moment in which Jon had probably been meant to say something. “That I’d be coming back today.” 

Jon is still standing in the doorway of his office. He hasn’t crossed the distance between them, isn’t fawning over Martin, isn’t pushing and pulling and tugging at him, needy and desperate. 

“I see,” Jon makes himself say, hoping that his voice doesn’t sound as thin and faint to the others as it does to him. 

He’d been able to act normal, when he’d been cursed. He’d been able to be himself, to do his job, to take the tube, to brush his teeth and go to bed. When Martin wasn’t around. Then Jon would see him, and every single reasonable, natural thought would slide right out of his head, and he wouldn’t even notice the change. This is the first time Jon has seen him in two weeks. The first time he’s seen him since-- since it ended. As much as it’s ended so far, at least. 

He feels like… himself. He’d felt like himself before as well, of course, so what does that self assessment matter? But he hadn’t even thought to wonder if he was acting like himself back then either, so at least that has changed. Does that count for something? Is he acting like himself? Is he doing or saying or thinking something strange right now, without even noticing? 

“Didn’t you get it?” Sasha asks, and Jon blinks rapidly, coming back to the present moment. Everyone’s looking at him carefully, like they’re waiting with bated breath for any sort of-- he doesn’t know. 

“What?” he says. 

“The _text,”_ she says. She seems to have taken over Martin’s end of the conversation, as he’s fallen silent. He’s just looking at Jon, not approaching either. 

“Let me-- I don’t remember receiving a-- ah,” he says, making himself tear his gaze away from Martin to pull his phone from his jacket pocket and glance at it. Staring isn’t-- he shouldn’t, not at Martin. He’s already done more than enough, there. “It seems that my phone has run out of battery at… some point in the last few days. I hadn’t noticed.” 

“Jesus,” Tim says. “I can’t imagine not noticing my phone running out of juice for even an hour. You might be a bit too deep down into the research hole, yeah?” 

“It’s not important,” he says, even if it is disconcerting to realize that he’s been walking around with what is effectively a brick in his pocket for the last few days without even noticing. When was the last time he used his phone? He can’t quite recall. He hasn’t been using it as an alarm clock lately, just working until he’s so exhausted that he can’t read straight and then going to sleep in the cot he has hidden away in the storage room until he wakes up on his own. He gets the most possible work done that way, even if the hours are inconsistent. “We still haven’t made any significant progress, so I shouldn’t be focusing on anything else until we do so.” 

There’s another pause in the conversation, and there’s a weird feeling in his chest like he’s missed a step on the stairs. Something that he’d been expecting to happen, without even realizing that he’d been expecting it, hadn’t happened. He glances quickly towards Martin, whose lips are pinched, his brow furrowed with concern, and yet he stays silent. Doesn’t sternly say anything about Jon overworking himself, doesn’t ask any worried questions. He has his hands held behind his back, and when he notices that Jon’s looking at him, he looks away. 

That strange, painful ache in his chest is back again. 

“We’ll catch Martin up on all of the angles we’ve already covered, then,” Tim says, breaking the silence with a casual tone of voice, as if there had never been any tension to break in the first place. 

“Right,” he says. “Yes. You-- you do that, and I’ll get back to my own-- my work.” 

“What did you want to tell us?” Sasha asks. “That you left your office for in the first place.” 

He cannot for the life of him remember. “It doesn’t matter,” he says instead, and retreats back into his office. He leans his back against his door as soon as he has it closed, and places a hand on his chest. 

Martin is back. His assistant is back, to do work. That’s fine. That’s normal. 

His heart is _thundering_ underneath his palm. 

How had he acted, just then? He goes over every single twitch and movement he’d made in his head, every single word he’d said, trying to analyze each and every one of them for the motive, the reason behind them. Why had he said that? What had made him do that? Did it make sense? Could he trace it back to its root, its origin within him? 

He _thinks_ he can. He thinks the way he had acted, the things he had said and done in that brief moment he had seen Martin for the first time in two weeks, made sense, came from him. He thinks. 

Except for one thing. He rubs his hand over his chest, feeling that lingering, painful ache there. What _is_ that? And where did it come from? 

… It’s just a feeling. It’s not a thought, or an action. It’s like-- it’s like a headache. Something that he can feel, something that bothers him, but it won’t control him and what he does if he doesn’t let it. It’s insignificant. Hopefully. 

He takes a deep breath and sits back down on his desk. He needs to-- he needs to do some work. Important, absorbing work. Well, he certainly has that in spades. 

He hadn’t been planning to read a statement about the rose today. He’d done that yesterday, and he’s found that if he reads one every single day, rather than inuring himself to it, he becomes… more fragile. If he makes sure to stagger the statements with a day or two between them, as frustratingly slow and inefficient as that is, then he’ll… lose control of himself only about one in four times, more or less. If he does it every single day, those odds rise, and they do so more with every single day without a break. 

Martin hadn’t even been willing to meet his eyes. To say more than the bare minimum to him. His chest _hurts._

Bracing himself, Jon picks up another statement of the rose to read. Hell, he should probably read more than just one today. It’s not like they’re all that long. He needs to get to the bottom of this, after all. 

It’s not that Martin had been expecting for Jon to be perfectly alright, when he came back to work. But he hadn’t been expecting _this._

“He doesn’t look good,” Martin says after he’s settled back in at his desk and Sasha’s caught him up on everything they’ve discovered so far, which is mostly just avenues of research that they’ve exhausted and had to scratch off their list. 

Jon had, in fact, not looked good. Dark circles underneath his eyes, his clothes wrinkled like he’s slept in them, looking especially gaunt and frayed at the edges. Just looking at him makes something in Martin ache to help him, to take care of him. He shouldn’t, of course. Jon probably doesn’t want Martin within arms reach of him, much less fussing over him. He just-- why hasn’t Tim or Sasha done something, at least? Is that unfair of him to think? It’s just-- if he can’t take care of Jon, someone else should. 

“Yeah,” Tim agrees tiredly. He doesn’t look all that fresh either, now that Martin’s paying attention to anything besides Jon. “He’s, uh-- stuck in a bit of a rut with no answers, and it’s kind of driving him crazy.” 

“It’s driving _me_ crazy,” Sasha mutters, still clacking away at her keyboard, not looking away from the screen. 

“If you’re not making any progress at all, and instead just-- just obsessing over it, then maybe you should… I don’t know, at least take a break?” This doesn’t seem healthy, or smart, or right. Just stubbornly throwing themselves at a dead end over and over again, getting nothing out of it but keeping their wounds open and bleeding. How is Jon supposed to move on and get better like this? 

“I really don’t think Jon can do that, mate,” Tim says. “Not knowing why or what exactly the rose is doing to him is what’s stressing him out. If he just stopped trying to figure it out entirely, that doesn’t mean that he’d stop thinking about it constantly. He’d probably be climbing the walls in less than a week if he tried to take a break.” 

God damn it, he’s right. He’s completely right. But this isn’t working either, what they’re already doing. How can Martin fix this? He wants to fix this. He wants to help Jon not look so-- so worn down, so tense and on edge. He wants to… he knows he didn’t ask for any of this, but it still feels like his fault. Like he did this to Jon himself. He wants to _help._

And it’s looking like the only way to help right now is to help Jon understand what’s going on enough that he can relax, that he can stop prying at this whole thing so that it can start to heal and scar over. To find a satisfying, complete answer for him. 

Jon, Tim, and Sasha have all been throwing themselves against this problem for two weeks now, with practically nothing to show for it. What, exactly, does he think he can bring to the table that they can’t? 

A fresh perspective, maybe? 

“How does the rose stop Jon from quitting?” he asks. “Like, how exactly?” 

“He said that if he tries to tell Elias that he wants to quit, the words just won’t leave his mouth,” Sasha says. “Almost like his throat’s closed up.” 

“And his fingers will freeze up if he tries to type up a resignation letter,” Tim says. “It’s pretty creepy to watch. It’s like a muscle spasm or something.” 

“Maybe we could write up the resignation letter for him?” Martin suggests. “Would that work?” 

Sasha makes an intrigued noise at that, but Tim shakes his head. 

“No,” he says. “Or, well, probably? Maybe? But the thing is, that’s not the problem. Jon’s not freaking out because he’s still the Head Archivist, he’s freaking out because something’s stopping him from quitting. Even if we manage to get him out of this job, he’d still be worrying about the rose continuing to influence him. That’s what he wants to understand, what we’re trying to figure out. How and why and what, all of that stuff.” 

Okay, fair. Martin thinks about it. He frowns. 

“It’s weird,” he says. “The way the rose is affecting him now.” 

“I know,” Sasha says. “Like I said, it’d make far more sense for it to be making him act in some small ways the way he had when he’d been fully under its control, obsessing over you or sex--” 

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” he says, although that’s weird too. “When he was being controlled by the rose, it’s not like his _body_ was being forced to-- to do those things. His thoughts were being changed so that he’d do different stuff, what the rose wanted.” _What I wanted._ “This seems really different? Like, if the rose is still influencing him in some way, doesn’t want for him to quit for some reason, then I’d be expecting for it to be manifesting differently? Like, it would never even occur to him to want to quit, instead of him just being physically incapable of doing it.” 

“That’s… huh,” Sasha says. “Yeah, that’s…” 

She never finishes her sentence, instead trailing off into a thoughtful silence, frowning at nothing as she chews on that. He doesn’t know if what he’s said is helpful, but at least it seems like something they haven’t considered yet? A new angle to try and look at this problem from. Hopefully anything at all is going to come from it. 

The rest of the day goes by slowly and quickly, all at once. It’s so hard to focus on his work, with the way his thoughts keep drifting towards Jon, towards fretting over him and feeling terrible over how clearly _not okay_ he is. Especially when his work feels so… threadbare, right now. It’s like he’s grasping at straws, following up on the weakest of hunches, because he doesn’t have anything else. 

He gets up around noon to make tea for everyone and-- and he makes a cup for Jon, before he realizes. 

The last time he’d brought tea for Jon, he’d kissed him. He probably doesn’t want to be reminded of that, does he. 

But he won’t drink anything if Martin doesn’t bring something to him, he knows that. 

But-- 

Martin pours Jon’s tea out into the sink regretfully. Such a waste. 

Tim leaves work first. It’s at a reasonable time, and he wonders if he should go as well? But he wants to find at least one solid thing before he gives up for the day. For Jon’s sake. Just one thing. 

Sasha leaves next. It’s not at a reasonable hour, but he feels like he’s so close to something, anything… just a bit longer. A bit longer. 

And then he blinks, and it's _eight._ Oh, that’s terrible. He should probably go home now. Definitely. Even if it feels like giving up… it’s not, going to bed isn’t giving up. He’ll just try again tomorrow. He will figure this out. He’ll fix this. He’ll help. 

He realizes that Jon hasn’t left yet either. He looks towards his closed office door, at the weak yellow light that’s spilling past the crack at the bottom of the door. He’s still there. He’s going to miss the last train home, at this rate. Martin’s had the sneaking suspicion, a few times in the past, that Jon had worked for so long that he’d simply fallen asleep at his desk and then woken up there in the morning. Which is horrifying, but also seems very much like something Jon would do. It fits, as terrible as that is.

Martin walks all the way up to Jon’s office door and raises his fist to knock before he remembers himself. He shouldn’t talk to Jon more than necessary. He shouldn’t bother him more than necessary. He shouldn’t be _alone_ with him. That has to be the last thing Jon wants in the world. 

Martin should walk away. He should leave Jon here, to work himself into exhaustion, to fall asleep at his desk with no one here to badger him to go home at something approaching a reasonable hour, to take care of himself. 

That doesn’t feel right. But… he really shouldn’t bother him, should he. He balls his hands up into fists, and feels terribly like he’s _lost_ something. The ability to talk to Jon without feeling like he’s doing something wrong, something cruel. Being able to bring him some tea in the middle of the day without feeling guilt. He hadn’t expected that, hadn’t been bracing himself for how much losing those things would hurt. It’s not like he and Jon were close, like they even had pleasant conversations with each other. What has he really lost? 

It still hurts. 

Martin’s about to turn away, to go and leave, when he hears it. It’s not loud, it’s muffled by the door but he hears… breathing. Ragged and unsteady, sounding pained, choked-- 

Crying. Jon’s crying. 

Martin’s opening the door before he can think better of it. Jon startles like he’d violently thrown it open or something, and he looks at him with wide eyes, too surprised to try and hide the tear tracks on his face. 

“What’s wrong?” Martin asks, like it isn’t obvious, like _he_ isn’t what’s wrong. 

“You’re still here?” Jon asks, bewildered, glancing quickly over at the clock. Then his eyes dart over towards his desk, the papers he has there-- a statement?-- and he sets an arm over them in what’s probably meant to be a casual way, but looks more like he’s trying to block Martin’s sight. He belatedly reaches up and wipes at his face, embarrassment clear on his expression. He clears his throat. “You-- you usually leave at an earlier hour.” 

“I lost track of time,” Martin lies. He takes a slow step closer. He doesn’t want to crowd Jon, to loom over him, but-- what is he hiding? Is there really more to this than the fact that Martin’s back? “What about you? When were you planning on going home?” 

“Soon,” he answers too quickly. Meaning, much later. Or possibly not at all. 

“Falling asleep at work is bad for you, Jon,” he can’t help but say. It’s something he’s said before. Sometimes he’d come to give Jon his mug of tea and find him dozing at his desk, probably giving himself a terrible back ache, and he’d have to wake him up, as much as it pained him to do so. Jon would fluster and stammer and say something to the effect of that it wasn’t any of Martin’s business. 

“I know that, Martin,” he says, like there’s no need for Martin to remind him. He’s stopped crying, but there’s a fine tremor in his hands, and his eyes are still red, the tracks the tears have left behind clear to see on his cheeks. Martin wants to find a washcloth and wet it with warm water and clean him up. 

God, that’s terrible. No. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks. _Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong? Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?_

Why would he want to do any of that with _him?_ Of course the answer is going to be no. And Martin won’t even be able to blame him. 

Jon’s eyes dart back to the papers on his desk, and he hurriedly looks away. Okay, that’s it. Martin gives up any pretenses and steps in closer, setting a hand on the desk and leaning in to read some of the words that aren’t being blocked by Jon’s arm. 

“What are you--?” Jon says, alarmed. 

_… no one had ever given me flowers before… so surprised I just accepted it…_

Martin blinks. “Jon,” he says, “is this a statement about the rose?” 

“I don’t--” Jon says, and then visibly changes tracks, going from shamefacedly averting his eyes like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar to drawing himself up with self righteousness. “Yes,” he says firmly. “It is. So what? We’re researching the rose, of course I’m reading the statements we’ve gathered on it. That’s only reasonable.” 

Jon’s been reading statements on the rose, tucked away in the privacy of his office, and _crying_ over it. Reading the accounts of people who went through the same thing as him, the people who did that to someone else on purpose, the people who watched on from the sidelines as an inexplicable change came over their loved ones that they were unable to do anything about. 

He’d thought earlier that Jon had been keeping his wounds fresh and open by continuing to research the rose. He hadn’t thought that it was true to this degree. How long has this been going on? The whole two weeks he’s been home nursing his broken heart, writing overwrought poetry about grasping, unwanted hands that were somehow his own? 

Of course it has. Of course. 

“This isn’t okay,” he says helplessly. “Jon, you-- you have to know that. That’s why you were hiding it. You know this isn’t good for you.” 

Jon scowls at him, as stubborn as a rock. “I wasn’t hiding it,” he says firmly. “I was just-- crying in front of other people, it’s not appropriate.” 

“You’ve been crying every time you’ve read one of these,” he says, disbelieving, “and you don’t think that’s a sign that this isn’t good for you?” 

“Not _every_ time,” Jon says, like that’s a good argument. “Only sometimes.” 

“Oh, only _sometimes!”_ he says, voice too high, too loud. “Never mind, then! That’s okay! Completely normal and healthy.” 

Jon’s scowl is going mullish and embarrassed, his mouth twisting. “It’s none of your business,” he spits. 

“I--” Martin says, and bites his tongue, because. He’s not wrong, is he. It isn’t any of his business. Nothing about Jon is any of his business. He should shut up and leave. 

Shut up and leave Jon to read statements that leave him crying and shaking, over and over again. 

No. Martin… he’s going to shove himself where he isn’t wanted, where he doesn’t have any right to be. He doesn’t care. _Someone_ needs to get Jon to knock it off, and there’s no one else here right now but him. 

“You don’t need to be reading these,” he says stubbornly. “You have three assistants, don’t you? Delegate.” 

“I can do it myself,” he insists. 

“You don’t _have_ to. You can do something else, alright? We’ll read the rose statements, and we can give you summaries if you like, notes on anything that seems useful. We can do it without it affecting us so badly. Give me--” 

“No!” Jon says, and reaches out and grabs at Martin’s reaching hand, going to take the papers away from him. Then a shocked look passes over his face, and he lets go of Martin like he’s scalded him, his hands springing away. 

A sick feeling rolls over in Martin’s stomach at the look on Jon’s face. He’d forgotten somehow, just for a moment, everything that’s happened between them while they’d been arguing. And then Jon had acted like forgetting himself and touching Martin was something _terrible_ and-- yeah, he remembers now. 

Martin takes a step back, so he’s not standing quite so close to him. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon says. His hands are balled up into tight fists now, held against his chest. “I-- I didn’t mean to-- I wasn’t thinking.” 

“You don’t have to apologize just for touching me,” he says, feeling like his heart is breaking just a tiny bit more at the look on Jon’s face. He almost looks _scared._

“Am I,” Jon says, and then stalls out. 

“What?” Martin gently prompts him after waiting for a long moment. 

“Am I acting like myself?” he asks Martin, sounding more vulnerable and plaintive than Martin’s ever heard him. 

“I… sorry?” he says. Somehow, that wasn’t what he’d been expecting for Jon to say. 

“It-- it’s so hard to trust my own thoughts. I’m trying to carefully consider the reason behind every single thing I say or do, but-- it’s not _working._ Back then, when I was cursed, I-- I never noticed that anything was wrong at all. If something is wrong now, how would I know? If I touch you now, how can I know for sure that it’s for a good reason?” 

“Jon,” he says, and doesn’t know what else to say. That sounds-- god that’s _awful._ He’d known that Jon would be feeling-- _bad,_ from all of this, but. He hadn’t thought that he’d be _doubting his own thoughts_ afterwards. 

No wonder he looks like such a wreck. 

“But you,” Jon goes on. “You and Tim and Sasha. You all knew that there was something wrong with me from the first moment, the whole way through. It was obvious to all of you. So-- so if there’s still something wrong with me, if I act in a way I shouldn’t-- you’ll notice, won't you? Am I acting like myself?” 

“Yes,” he says immediately. Jon looks so lost, like he has nothing solid to hold onto. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, if Martin will always be able to notice if something’s off with Jon no matter how subtle it is-- what Jon needs right now is solid ground. He has to be able to give him that. “Yes, Jon, you’re acting like yourself, considering the circumstances. I’d tell you if you weren’t, I _promise.”_

Jon closes his eyes and shudders for a moment. Martin wants to reach out and hug him. He doesn’t. 

“You can ask me that question whenever you want to, you know,” he says. “Or Tim and Sasha. It’s no problem.” 

“That-- that’s absurd,” Jon says, opening his eyes. 

“No, it isn’t,” he argues. “You were literally warped by a magical artefact so you couldn’t even notice that something was wrong, Jon, it’s not weird at _all_ for you to want to ask that question. So-- whenever you’re worried that you might not be acting like yourself, just-- just ask us. It’s okay. We won’t mind, trust me.” 

Jon holds himself tense and still for a long moment, but then his shoulders slump all at once and Martin knows that he’s won at least this. He sighs with relief. At least he’s gotten Jon to concede one little thing, to be just a bit kinder to himself. 

“Fine,” he says tiredly. “Fine, I… I suppose you’re right, yes. Thank you, Martin.” 

“It’s no problem,” he says, trying not to get caught up in the flash of warmth he feels at hearing that, _thank you, Martin._

Jon rubs at his eyes underneath his glasses for a moment and he looks so tired that Martin wants to whisk him away to the nearest bed-- _just_ for sleep, god, nothing else. He doesn’t want to do anything else with him, except for how he also does, and it’s a weird paradox but it’s true. It’s like… wanting to let yourself tip over the edge of a roof, he thinks. You feel the urge, the want, but you don’t actually want for it to happen in reality. That would be terrible, terrifying, it’d _hurt._ He wants to do things with Jon, he likes to think about it-- but any of it actually happening in reality would be awful. He doesn’t want what he wants. 

It’s very strange, but he thinks he’ll get used to it eventually. 

“Did I make the right choice?” he asks, and then he clacks his mouth closed, too late. He hadn’t meant to ask that. He hadn’t meant to ask _anything._

But he’s been thinking about this, so very much. 

“What?” Jon asks. 

“I-- I mean,” and fuck it, he’s already stepped in it, he might as well get a straight answer so he won’t be worrying about it on his deathbed, even if the answer may be terrible. “When we were deciding what to do, we had a choice. I could sleep with you, and that would fix you right away. Or I could avoid it, and you’d keep being cursed until we’d finally be able to find a solution. Both choices were bad in their own ways and-- we couldn’t ask you which one you would’ve preferred. So I had to guess what you would’ve wanted. Did I guess right? Or was I wrong?” 

Jon’s expression shutters. “Don’t ask me that.” 

Martin flinches back, surprised. “I’m sorry,” he says reflexively. “I didn’t mean to--”

Jon raises a hand in a _stop talking_ gesture, his expression going pained. 

“No,” he says. “No, I’m sorry, that… you aren’t doing anything wrong, I just. This is going to sound terrible.” 

“You don’t have to tell me what you would’ve picked if you don’t want to,” he says. “It’s-- I don’t need to know. I’m sorry for prying.” 

Jon’s shaking his head. “No, that’s not it. I-- I don’t know _what_ I would have picked, Martin. I still don’t know, because I haven’t tried to make a choice, even now. Both options are terrible. And I’m… I’m so relieved that I never had to make that choice myself, to force myself to be complicit in my own fate like that. I know that puts it all on you, and that-- that’s not fair of me. I’m being weak.” 

“Oh,” he says. He’d thought that there would be a binary choice, that he’d either chosen wrong or right but this-- “Well. I-- I’m glad then, that you didn’t have to choose. That’s not weak, Jon. It was a-- a really _awful_ choice. No one would’ve liked to have to make it.” 

A bitter, wry smile twists on Jon’s lips. “I don’t blame you for what you chose,” he says. “Just so you know. You were trying to make the best of a terrible situation. I know that.” 

_Don’t cry,_ he tells himself. God, it feels like he can’t take a full breath in from how much that hit him, but later. Later. He wants to be here for Jon, he wants to help him. He can fall apart later, he can repeat those words to himself over and over again when he’s alone. _I don’t blame you for what you chose._ He doesn’t think he’s ever been this dizzily relieved to hear something before in his entire life. 

“But at the same time,” Jon goes on, and the wry smile falls off his face as his expression crumples like a piece of paper, “I wish I’d gotten to choose what happened to me. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s like I want both at the same time, and also neither, and I-- _damn it.”_

He snarls that, sounding genuinely angry, frustrated, and he wipes at his eyes again, his movement quick and rough. 

“This keeps _happening,”_ he says, furious and despairing. He takes off his glasses and covers his eyes with a hand, like he’s trying to stem the bleeding from a wound, applying pressure. “I _hate_ it.” 

Martin wants to reach out and wipe his tears away. He doesn’t. 

“Maybe if you _let_ yourself cry, it won’t be as bad?” he suggests tentatively. 

Jon lowers his hand away from his face, just enough to give Martin a look like he’s suggested something ridiculous. Tears are still slowly leaking from his eyes, despite his glare. For some reason, Martin softens underneath that look. 

“How is crying on _purpose_ going to stop me from breaking out into tears at the drop of a hat?” he asks acidically. 

“Well, the reason you’re crying is because some part of you deep down needs to, right? So if you just push it down all of the time, it’s going to come welling up every time there’s the slightest crack. So… just find a convenient time for it and let it all out for a bit.” 

“What, I just sit down, planning to cry?” Jon asks incredulously. “Put it into my daily planner?” 

“Well, yeah,” he says, smiling. “I do that a couple of times a month, to be honest.” 

It’s been harder to do it this month, as much as it seems like it should be the opposite. How is he supposed to sit there and cry and feel sorry for himself and get it all out of his system, when Jon’s just bottling it all up in himself and slowly going insane with stress? But maybe he can get back into it now, or soon. It would be nice to not feel so breakable any longer. 

Jon blinks wide, startled eyes at him, like he’s confessed to something strange or too vulnerable. Martin doesn’t care. If it helps, then he’ll say anything at all. 

“Well,” Jon says haltingly, awkwardly. “I… suppose I could try it out.” 

“Great,” Martin says firmly, and then he grabs the statement from Jon’s desk before he can react and stop him. “And you _won’t_ be reading these sorts of statements any longer, alright? Me and Tim and Sasha will take care of them for you.” 

Outrage flashes across Jon’s tear streaked face, and he straightens up with indignation. 

“You don’t get to decide that!” 

“Oh, that’s weird, it looks like I just did? Are these the rest of them? I’ll just be taking these as well.” He finds and picks up an entire pile of statements from Jon’s desk, helpfully standing out from the rest of them by all being filed into rather new looking file maps instead of the old and worn ones that all the other ones are in. 

“I-- you-- _Martin,”_ Jon says. 

“And you _will_ be going home now,” he goes on. He does indeed have zero authority over Jon, but he’s learned that if he has to, it’s not that hard to bulldoze over him with sheer sternness and certainty. He saves it for times like this, when Jon’s at work when he _really shouldn’t be._ “It’s almost nine, Jon.” 

Jon looks like he’s going to continue to try and argue with him for a moment, but then Martin shoots him a firm, stubborn look, and he wilts with resignation. His posture suddenly looks as tired as the bags underneath his eyes say he should be. 

“Fine,” he says. “Fine, I’ll go home for the day.” 

“Thank you,” Martin says curtly. There’s something like a glow of accomplishment sitting in his chest as Jon gets up from his chair and starts gathering his things. Martin follows him out of the Archives to make sure that he really _is_ leaving, and it’s more than he thought he’d ever get to interact with Jon again. 

He makes sure to continue to carefully avoid touching him, though. 

Tim isn’t particularly surprised to be the first of the assistants coming into work the next day. Both Martin and Sasha had looked ready to be there for the long haul, they’re probably both still asleep, the poor buggers. It makes him feel kind of uncomfortable, being the first one of them to leave, like he isn’t as invested, but-- one of them _has_ to be the first to leave, and he really did feel like he was this close to tearing his own hair out. 

He also isn’t surprised to see that Jon’s already here as well, despite also being clearly ready to stay at work for the long haul. Jon’s always ready for that, and he’s always the first one in anyways. He can tell that he’s there because Jon leaves his office door standing open when he leaves for the day, and closed when he comes in. For his recordings. 

He settles in to get started for the day. Work had been less stressful, back when he’d just mostly been fact checking and quickly debunking ghost claims by drunk college kids or whatever, and he has to remind himself that this isn’t life or death, like Sasha had told him weeks ago. It’s even less high stakes now, really, even if it does matter. Jon’s peace of mind is depending on them figuring this out, but there’s no deadline on that. If they don’t figure it out this very day, then that’s not a disaster. It’s okay. 

Tim works. Some time later, there’s the sharp sound of a chair screeching across the floor from Jon’s office and a yelp. He looks up, blinking. 

“Jon?” he calls out. “Everything alright?” 

“Yes, everything’s alright, Tim,” Jon calls back out to him past the closed door. His voice sounds tight, stressed. 

He’s probably just seen a spider again. He gets _jumpy_ around those things. 

If it was just a spider, then Tim should be hearing the thuds of Jon frantically trying to kill it by now, though. He feels worried and uneasy. Should he go and check it out? 

Jon ends up making the decision for him by opening the door to his office. He looks at Martin and Sasha’s empty desks first, and then towards Tim. He looks tense, uncomfortable, his brow furrowed. 

“Something the matter, boss?” he asks, even though there clearly is. 

“I would like to… may I ask a favor of you?” he says, gripping the doorframe at his side. 

Well, that doesn’t sound ominous at all. He entertains the thought that maybe all Jon wants is for him to go and take care of a spider for him, but no. Jon’s always taken care of those himself, with great prejudice. 

“Suuure,” he says, drawing the word out with apprehension. “What _kind_ of favor?” 

“Could you just-- get rid of something for me? I don’t care about what you do with it, just get it out of the office, please.” 

Well, huh. Maybe it is a spider, then. One big enough to give even Jonathan Sims pause. 

“I can do that,” he says, and gets up. Jon lets him into his office, looking unhappy and tense about it. “Alright, where is the sucker? Point it out for me, boss, I’ll make it regret ever crawling into our basement.” 

“It’s-- no. It’s not a spider. It’s in there.” 

He points a drawer in his desk that’s pulled open. Tim leans over and looks into it. 

_Oh._

The lube bottle. From the whole _lube incident,_ as Tim’s started calling it in his head. He’d kept the bottle, that’s right. Tim had sort of forgotten about it. He would’ve figured maybe that Jon would’ve gotten rid of it by now, but it seems like maybe Jon himself forgot that he still had it as well, and only remembered when he opened a drawer to get something else from it. It must have been a nasty shock. 

He casually glances over at Jon from the corner of his eye. He’s got his arms crossed, very deliberately not looking at Tim or the drawer. He looks miserable, and like he’s very poorly trying to hide it. He could’ve gotten rid of the thing himself after everyone else had gone home, done it quietly and discreetly, but instead he came and asked Tim to do it for him. 

Tim decides that this probably isn’t a ‘crack a joke to lighten the mood’ moment, and just picks up the bottle without making a big deal about it, pushing the drawer closed with his hip. 

“Be right back,” he says, and leaves the Archives, jogging up the stairs and out of the building itself to toss the bottle into the dumpster back behind the building. It seems like nice stuff and all, but using the rest himself-- yeah, no, that would be weird as hell. He doesn’t want to be thinking about any single part of this disaster when he’s trying to have fun with someone. He goes back down into the Archives to the sight of Jon waiting for him just outside of his office. He dusts his hands off theatrically and gives him a smile. “All done, boss.” 

“Right,” Jon says. He doesn’t look relieved or grateful so much as still pretty upset. “Thank you for your help, Tim.” 

He moves to go back into his office, and-- Tim is starting to get pretty tired of letting Jon flee into his office to go and be miserable all alone. He knows he needs space and the time to process it and all that, but come on. No. 

“I know I already told you that we don’t think any less of you for any of this,” he says, and Jon pauses. “But you know, if it bears repeating, then I’ll say it as many times as you need.” 

He doesn’t know if that’s the issue, if that’s what he’s supposed to say, but he’s flying blind here. He just wants for things to be better already, for this suffocating atmosphere in the Archives to go away. He wants Jon to feel okay enough again that Tim can tease him in good conscience. 

“I know, Tim,” Jon says, but does he? He goes into his office, and Tim casually catches the door and lets himself in, like Jon was expecting for him to follow. He’s going to _make_ this be a conversation. 

“The whole lube thing-- I know that was pretty much one of the… _biggest_ things that happened, while you weren’t yourself. But honestly, it could’ve been way worse. Let’s not imagine what would’ve happened if I pricked myself, huh? I’m shameless enough as it is.” He can’t help but try and keep the tone light, joking. Everything feels so unbearably heavy right now. 

Jon gives him a look as Tim follows him into his office, but doesn’t tell him to fuck off, which Tim decides to take as a win. He sits down in his chair, and Tim casually hooks his leg around the chair he keeps pushed up against the wall for the rare visitor, pulling it over to the corner of Jon’s desk and sitting down like he belongs. That’s the best way to fit in, he’s learned-- having the sheer gall to act like you already do. 

“The biggest thing,” Jon says. “I’m not even sure it was. There were plenty of moments that I-- did something, and you weren’t there to see it.” 

“Something _worse_ than-- okay, I’m morbidly curious now.” Jon’s shoulders hunch, and he decides to make a conversational U-turn. “Not that you have to tell me. It honestly doesn’t matter, boss. It’s in the past, and you did it while you weren’t you.” 

“And that makes it not matter?” he asks, not looking at Tim, his gaze fixed on his desk. “Like it never even happened? I never abused my authority as Head Archivist to find Martin’s address and ambush him at his home?” 

“Uh--” 

“It doesn’t _matter_ that I harassed him until he felt he had to tie me up just to be safely alone in my presence?” 

That one had been his idea, he thinks with a guilty wince. He leans forward and nudges Jon’s shoulder with his hand to get him to stop talking, and he startles like a cat that’s been snuck up on, finally looking at him. 

“You don’t need to read out the whole list,” he says. “I get it. I’m sorry for saying that, I was just trying to… It does matter that it happened. What I mean is, it’s not your _fault._ Okay? You don’t need to feel guilty or something.” 

Jon averts his eyes again, holding himself stiffly. “I-- it’s not that I feel _guilty,”_ he says tightly. Tim realizes with something like a kick of horror in his stomach that his eyes are starting to look shiny, wet. “Or-- not most of the time, at least. I _know_ that I was-- wasn’t in full control of my faculties at the time, even if I can’t always _believe_ it, but.” 

“Jon, you don’t have to tell me--” 

“I’ve never been so _embarrassed_ in my entire life,” he says, his voice breaking slightly halfway through the sentence. He looks tense, tight, unhappy and-- Tim only just now recognizes what’s been flickering across Jon’s face throughout this whole conversation-- _humiliated._

Tim’s never seen someone cry due to sheer mortification before. He really doesn’t want to change that today. 

“I was trying to be-- to be _respectable,_ professional,” he goes on. “Like I’m actually worthy of this promotion. How am I supposed to pretend like I have _dignity_ after all of the things I’ve said and done in front of all of you?” 

That is… wow, that’s a lot. Tim abruptly feels deeply out of his depth. All he’d wanted to do was to downplay some of the things that had happened, try and cheer Jon up, make him feel better, like it all wasn’t such a big deal. And now he looks like he’s on the verge of _crying_ and Tim really, really doesn’t want to tip him over the edge. If the problem is that Jon is embarrassed, going all teary and snotty in front of him probably isn’t going to help that. 

“I had sex with a guy for the first time when I was in uni,” is what he ends up saying. 

“What?” Jon asks. 

“And the thing is, I’d watched some bad porn before that, and that was basically all the experience I had when it came to anal. So I thought that, okay, just using spit is what _those_ guys did, so that’s clearly how it works. Because _obviously_ porn is a super realistic how-to manual. Long story short, I have to end up going to the infirmary because my ass is chafed as fuck, and to top it all off, I’m not getting a second date with twelve inch dick Tony.” 

Jon gives him a deeply bewildered look. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

“I wasn’t paying attention the day in English class when they were teaching the contraction rule, and it wasn’t until I got my first job in publishing that someone taught me it, so until then I was just wildly guessing whether I should use your or you are, and getting it wrong about half of the time in every single essay or email I wrote. I must’ve looked like such a dumbass, and yet it took _decades_ for anyone to correct me.” 

“I don’t…” 

“Oh! And this one time, a couple of years ago? This woman took me to her home and we were having a great time and all-- and then her _husband_ came home. She’d conveniently forgotten to tell me that she was married, and then she’d also decided to go and fuck me on her marriage bed. Which, you know, if you’re going to be a bastard at least be smart about it? But the thing is that I could hear him clomping up the stairs a mile away, this guy was _huge,_ and she started acting like she was about to witness a murder. So I grab my clothes as fast as I can and I crawl out of her goddamned window. She lived on the third floor, so I was genuinely putting my life in the hands of god as I clung there, wearing nothing but a condom. I managed to inch my way towards the fire escape after a bit and put my clothes on-- which is when I realize that I grabbed her bathrobe, not my pants. So, that’s what I ended up wearing for my walk of shame that day.” 

“Tim.” 

“I still believed in the tooth fairy until I was thirteen. Completely, genuinely. And the reason for that is--” 

Jon reaches out and sets a hand on his arm. “Tim you don’t have to do-- whatever you’re doing, it’s not necessary.” 

“What? I’m just sharing some fun, embarrassing stories of me being a complete dumbass with my _friend._ Sure, it’s humiliating when you do or say something stupid in front of your boss or your coworker, but it’s all in good fun if it’s in front of your buddy. It’s just something that you can laugh about together later, some day. Or not at all, if it’s still too much of a sore spot. You don’t have to be all distant and dignified with me. We’re friends, aren’t we?” 

Jon opens his mouth. Closes it. He looks almost stunned, but he is, very importantly, _not_ on the verge of crying any longer. So, mission success? 

“Aren’t we?” he asks again, softer this time. 

Jon nods mutely, and then looks down at his own lap, like he can’t bear to make eye contact after admitting to that. Honestly, he’s so repressed it’s ridiculous. Was he raised by a Victorian ghost? Is that it? 

“Cool,” he says, grinning. “So, that’s what’s been going on? You’ve been trying to act all professional because you got promoted? I was wondering what stick got lodged up your--” wait, maybe that’s too sexual too soon? He quickly swerves. “Why you suddenly started acting all… huffy and strict? You didn’t need to do that, Jon. Where did you get that brilliant idea from, huh?” 

Jon crosses his arms defensively, looking back up at Tim half sheepishly, half belligerently. 

“I couldn’t just go on acting like I was still a researcher, could I?” 

“Why not?” Tim asks. “It’s just me, Sasha, and Martin here. You don’t have to impress anyone. If you mess up in front of us I promise none of us are gonna go tattling to Elias or the rest of the Institute. It’s not a big deal.” 

“I… yes, that’s starting to become clear to me now,” Jon says haltingly. 

None of the rest of the Institute know about the rose. They managed to hide it from everyone else in the building for the whole duration of the curse, and they’re already planning to omit a few details when they finally do get around to calling Artefact Storage to come and pick the thing up. They’ll let them know how to safely handle the thing, of course, but it’s not really necessary for them to know just how long they’ve had it, or that Jon was affected by it, do they? No, they don’t. 

Jon was cursed for a whole week, and no one but them knows it. And that’s not going to change, unless Jon himself wants to share with someone else. If _that_ doesn’t convince him that he’s safe with them, that they’ve got his back, they’ll keep his secrets, then nothing will. 

And the good thing is, it does look like he is in fact being convinced. 

“Good,” he says, satisfied. Outside of the office, he hears muffled voices. “Sounds like Martin and Sasha are in! I’d best get to it. Feel free to drop in whenever you want to though, yeah? You’re our mate. You don’t have to hole up in your office all of the time until you have an excuse to leave.” 

“I-- I know, Tim,” he says, sounding like this is news to him. Well, he knows now. His job is done. Tim grins, salutes him, and leaves. 

“So, I have a new theory,” Sasha says, looking particularly unhinged. 

“Oh?” Martin says carefully. She’d walked into the Archives without so much as a good morning or a hello or how are you, those words being the first ones to leave her mouth. She doesn’t look like she’s slept since he last saw her. She’d been terribly distracted yesterday as well, not seeming to take in a single thing anyone said to her, only mumbling something vague in reply without looking away from her computer screen. He’d taken it for a sign of exhaustion at the time, but it’s starting to look like that maybe wasn’t the case. 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said a few days ago, Martin. I’ve been thinking about it a _lot.”_

“What _exactly_ did I say?” he asks warily, trading a quick look with Tim. 

“You said-- wait, get Jon, Jon should be here for this.” 

“Alright,” Tim says, who gets up and fetches Jon. “Sasha’s got something to say,” he whispers to him, and then turns back around. “Okay, we’re all paying attention, Sash.” 

“A few days ago, Martin said that he thought that the way the rose was influencing Jon now was weird,” she says, launching into whatever speech she has prepared. “The way the rose works is that it warps its victims' thoughts, making them behave the way the target wants for them to behave.” 

Martin shifts uncomfortably, doesn’t look at Jon. Tim coughs pointedly. 

“--without taking into account the target’s ethics, of course. Obviously. But the thing is, what’s going on with Jon now is very different from that. As far as we can tell, his thoughts aren’t being altered at all. He just can’t _do_ some things, no matter how hard he tries. Even if the rose’s influence has been weakened to a shadow of what it could once do, why is it so different? Shouldn’t it be a watered down version of itself, at the very least? So, I started considering what the most logical reason there is for this, no matter how wrong it feels. The answer: _two curses.”_

 _“What?”_ Jon asks sharply. 

“Um, yeah, what?” Martin agrees, an octave too high. 

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” she breathes. She looks manic. “None of the other rose victims are experiencing anything like Jon is. We assumed that it was because we broke the curse without doing what it wanted, but what if it’s not that? What if it’s because Jon’s been placed under a second, separate curse, and we’re conflating the two?” 

“That’s-- that’s ridiculous!” Jon protests. “I don’t just walk around pawing over moldy antiques and being rude to witches. I think I would have _noticed_ if something _else_ cursed me.” 

“Well,” Sasha says, “you didn’t the first time.” 

Jon shuts up at that. After a moment, Sasha winces, looking like she realizes that what she just said was rude at best, which, yeah, _good._

 _“Sasha,”_ Martin says. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she says. “Just-- you know, the trigger for you to start acting strange after you pricked yourself on the rose was seeing Martin. Even if there hadn’t been a weird thought warping thing involved that stopped you from realizing that you were acting strange, you wouldn’t have noticed that something was up until you first saw him. That’s what’s probably going on here. You didn’t notice that you were cursed to be unable to quit your job until you tried doing that, but who's to say when that curse was laid on you? It could’ve been there for hours, days, weeks, months, years, and you never noticed because you never tried to quit. The cursing itself, that doesn’t need to be big and flashy and noticeable. You know that from experience.” 

“But why would someone or something curse me to be unable to _quit my job,_ of all things?” Jon asks. “It’s bizarre.” 

“It is hard to see what someone would get out of it, yeah, but I’m not just talking out of my ass here. I do have something to back up my theory: Gertrude Robinson.” 

“My predecessor?” he asks, startled. “What does she have to do with this? _She_ can’t have possibly done this. She’s dead.” 

“Sasha, are you trying to tell us that the Archives are haunted?” Tim asks. “Please, say that the Archives are haunted.” 

“Neither of those things, sorry. I just wanted to point out that she never quit her job either. Or get fired, despite how ridiculously messy the Archives are, and she didn’t retire either, even though she was really starting to get on in the years. She was the Head Archivist until the day she died. It would be weird for someone to curse Jon to be unable to quit his job, that’s definitely true. But what if there’s some sort of curse on the Head Archivist job itself? And if so, how far back does it go? That’s what I’ve been looking into so far, and guess what. Not a _single_ Head Archivist has ever quit, been fired, or retired. Not since the founding of the Magnus Institute itself. They’ve all either died or just straight up _disappeared,_ never to be seen again.” 

“That’s…” Jon says. 

“Holy shit,” Tim says. 

“Not a single one?” Martin asks. “Are you sure?” 

_“Very_ sure. Trust me, I’ve quadruple checked. I’m pretty sure that Jon was cursed the moment he accepted that promotion, and it’s only now that he’s bumped against its restrictions that he’s noticing.” 

“Good lord,” Jon says faintly, looking wide eyed and ashen, and he sits down in the closest chair. 

“In conclusion,” Sasha says with great relish, like she’s driving her sword through the chest of the man who killed her father after years of single minded training and hunting, “the rose curse is _not_ still affecting Jon. It’s been broken and gone for weeks now, and we don’t have to worry about it any longer. Jon being unable to quit is a completely separate problem.” 

Martin looks at Jon. It’s hard to shake off the feeling that he doesn’t deserve to talk to him, to interact with him, but he tries his best to do so anyways. Because he needs to ask, “Jon, are you alright?” 

“Two curses,” Jon says blankly. “I’ve had _two_ curses placed on me.” 

“Yeah, that’s… that’s really bad luck, mate,” Tim says, and pats him placatingly on the shoulder. Martin feels a brief flare of _intense_ jealousy at the ease with which he can just touch Jon, like it isn’t a transgression, a violation, an insult. Like it’s nothing. He takes a deep breath and tries to tamp down on that. 

“It’s the only logical explanation,” Sasha declares firmly. 

“Is it?” Martin asks. Everyone’s accepting her conclusion without any doubt, it seems like, and he feels the strange urge to argue against her just a little. “Do we know that for sure? Couldn’t it be a coincidence that all of the past Head Archivists didn’t quit?” 

_“Or_ retire _or_ get fired. _All_ of them, Martin, for over two hundred years. That’s so much more than a coincidence. I know that it’s hard to test for this sort of thing and know something as a one hundred percent fact, but come on. That would be ridiculous. Something or someone has to be behind this, it can’t have just _happened.”_

He doesn’t really have anything to say in response to that because… yeah, she’s right. That _would_ be ridiculous. 

“Two completely separate curses, that have nothing to do with each other,” Jon goes on, still not looking at anything or anyone in particular. Martin is starting to grow… concerned. “I’ve been cursed _twice._ It’s not that I’m still under the rose curse, it’s just that there’s _another one for me to deal with.”_

“Um, yeah,” Tim says. “Listen, boss, I get that it’s a nasty shock, but--” 

“What am I even supposed to _do_ with this one!?” he demands, standing abruptly up from his chair. “People have been unable to get out of it for hundreds of years, apparently! Everyone else who has ever suffered from it is _dead._ I can’t exactly ask _them_ for a Statement, can I!?” 

“Oh, whoops,” Sasha says, seeming to come down from her mania a bit now that it seems like everyone’s accepting her theory. “I didn’t mean to do that.” 

“I’m sure we’ll figure something out--” Martin tries feebly, and Jon cuts him off by making a _deeply_ aggravated growling sort of sound and stomping off to his office. He slams his door shut. 

They all look at each other for a moment. 

“Was that my fault?” Sasha asks. 

“I mean, I don’t think he was ever going to take that revelation _well,”_ Tim says. “I think you’re fine.” 

“Should one of us…?” Martin asks, getting out of his chair, looking at Jon’s closed office door. 

“Leeet’s give him a bit of space to process this first, I think. You know, I think I’d be pretty pissed too if I found out that I had two curses on me. That’s just excessive.” 

“Right,” he says, even though that was actually not what he’d been hoping to hear. He sits back down unhappily, and lets Jon have his space. 

Jon doesn’t come out for the rest of the day. 

Jon has a problem, and it’s that he isn’t cursed. Or, no, he _is_ still cursed, which is _also_ a problem. But it’s starting to look like the rose doesn’t have any remaining hold on him. And that’s a _problem,_ because that means-- 

He’d been so, so sure that it still had a hold on him. Because he can’t quit, no matter how hard he tries. And because-- 

Every single time he sees Martin, he wants to be pressed up close against him. He wants his arms around him. He wants to be held, safe and solid and secure, and to let himself melt into his warmth. He aches to bridge the distance between them, and if he’s not cursed then _what excuse does he have?_

It must be the curse. It must be. He hadn’t had these feelings, these thoughts, these wants, _before_ this whole mess started. Sasha must be wrong. Somehow. 

Tentatively, he tries to picture it. Kissing Martin. Taking his clothes off, piece by piece. Touching him, letting himself be touched, fucked-- 

He searches himself for any sort of frantic want, a sickly need, a burning heat. There’s nothing. It feels… unrealistic. Unappealing. He doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want sex. It’s a relief, and it’s _not,_ because if he doesn’t want sex, if all he wants is to be held close and warm-- then that could just be him. 

How could this have _happened?_ Him, wanting _Martin?_ Martin Blackwood? Surely not. Definitely not. Martin annoys him, everyone knows that. He hasn’t exactly been trying to hide it. They’re not friendly, they don’t get along. 

Except, of course, for when Jon had been cursed. He’d been a _menace_ towards Martin then. He’d harassed and bothered him to the point of exhaustion and despair. He’d been terrible. 

And Martin had been the picture of patience and kindness, beyond all reason. He’d tried so hard to be careful with Jon, to not embarrass him, to not let things go too far. He’d tried to stop him from crossing any lines, even as Jon has fought him at every turn. 

Martin has always been thoughtful and considerate of other people. Even Jon knows that, even if he wishes he’d extend the same level of care and attention to his work. He makes tea for everyone every day like clockwork. He reminds them to stop and have lunch. He tries to get Jon to leave at a reasonable hour, wringing promises out of him that he keeps only about half of the time out of him before he leaves himself. He turns Jon away when he tries to come to work sick, merciless and uncompromising. That’s the sort of person Martin is. 

He’s always known this about him. It’s been obvious. He half grudgingly admired it, and half scoffed at it, as if Martin were only being kind to try and make up for the quality of his work, and it was an inadequate compensation. It… seems like an unreasonably unfair judgement, in hindsight. 

Martin has always shown every sign that he cares about the people around him, including even Jon. He’s shown decency. But seeing Martin put so much effort into trying to protect his emotional needs, to shield him from himself in his moment of need over and over again-- 

It’s challenging to try and picture scolding him over some minor mistake after all of that. It’s even more challenging to try and reconcile all of this with the fact that he’d-- _lusted_ after him for a solid week. 

Jon has a problem, and it’s that he wants Martin. It’s a problem, because Martin does _not_ want him. He’d made that more than clear. It’s the whole reason that Jon can think a single coherent thought around him now. It is his saving grace. 

It feels strange, to be _sad_ over the thing that saved him. He can either have Martin wanting him and himself being cursed, or he can have Martin not wanting him and himself being free. He can’t have both. Considering that, the latter is clearly the superior option, isn’t it? 

He wishes it wasn’t the one or the other. He wishes he could have both freedom and Martin’s regard, even though he has no idea what he’d _do_ with it. Kiss him? Hold his hand? Ask him on a date? 

After all of that? 

He can’t ever let Martin know about this, he realizes. He’s already had to put up with so much from Jon, of being-- _groped_ and propositioned and followed home and-- having Jon make him the focus of his unrequited feelings must be the _last_ thing he wants to deal with right now. Or ever. Whatever unimaginable thing had inspired his first crush, Jon can’t see him ever making that mistake again. 

It’s fine. He just has to keep quiet about this, keep it a secret, and eventually it will just… fade away. It will. It has to. 

He can’t keep feeling this painful ache in his chest for the rest of his life. It has to end. It must. 

Sasha changes the dates on a few Statements, calls up Artefact Storage with careful instructions on which box the rose is in and how to handle it, and then she packs up early for the day. It’s been a long time since she’s done that, and she relishes it. 

Jon is suffering under a second curse, and obviously that’s not good, that’s not okay. But all it’s doing in the end is stopping him from quitting his job. That’s a far cry from being forced to have sex with someone, or dying if he’s separated from Martin’s side for too long. It’s not an emergency, it’s not something that she has to tear her hair out trying to solve, and she’s so, so relieved. She’s tired. She’s exhausted. She’s _spent._

So of course she goes ahead and splurges for a bottle of champagne and goes to celebrate with Tim, in her flat. 

“I honestly don’t get why it’s so pricy,” she says. “I’ve had booze for just a few pounds that’s better than this.” 

“It’s _fancy,”_ Tim says. She’s sitting on her couch, and he’s sitting on the floor, his head leaning against her leg. “I mean, it’s usually not poured into plastic cups? And you’re not supposed to be wearing your sweats while you drink it either.” 

“All of my normal glasses are in the wash,” she says, and throws back another glass of champagne. It burns on the way down, but that’s more due to the bubbles than the alcohol content. “And my cocktail dresses too.” 

Tim laughs, and between the two of them, they empty the whole bottle that evening. 

Jon’s still cursed in some way that they don’t entirely understand, Martin still gets a kicked dog look around Jon sometimes, and Jon also seems a touch more neurotic than normal. Everything isn’t a hundred percent okay and fixed and perfect. But she’s so tired that she’s willing to settle for this, just for now. Jon is no longer under the thrall of the rose in any way. She’s willing to call that a win and celebrate. She can let go and be happy, just for tonight. 

By the time Tim is tilting his head back and shaking the last few drops of champagne out of the bottle into his open mouth, smacking the bottom of the bottle like there’s some leftover booze clinging to the bottom like viscous ketchup, she’s feeling light and giggly, like a particularly giddy cloud. She’s not drunk, but she’s not exactly sober either. 

“That’s not gonna work,” she informs him. 

“I have an idea,” he says, peering into the opening of the bottle with one eye like it's a telescope, searching for the booze that’s maliciously hiding from him. “If we fill this bottle up with water and shake it, we’ll basically have some really watered down champagne, yeah?” 

“Oh, that sounds sad. Tim, we don’t have to do that, I’ve got some boxed wine in the fridge.” 

“Suck all of the fun out of it, why don’t you?” 

She snorts at him, gets up to go and get the wine, and then has to reach out to steady herself as dizziness rushes over her all at once. “Oh-- shit,” she swears, squeezing her eyes shut. 

She feels Tim’s arms come around her hips, as if to help anchor her. 

“Careful there,” he tells her, sounding more concerned than playful now. She opens her eyes and looks down at him, and the room is only spinning a little. “Had a bit too much?” 

“It snuck up on me,” she says, and she thinks she manages to sound very mature about it, not offended or petulant at all. He grins up at her. 

“It’s late,” he says, without glancing over at a clock. He’s probably right anyways. “Let’s call it a night, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” she agrees. She still feels light and giggly, but there’s an edge of nausea to it now, and she kind of just wants to lie down until everything feels still and solid again. “Stay.” 

They do this often. It’s no fun trudging home at who knows what o'clock in the pitch dark when you’re drunk enough to be tripping over your own feet, and she doesn’t want to subject Tim to that either. Why not just have him sleep over for the night? It’s no big deal. He doesn’t even snore. She appreciates that in a man. 

She helps him up, and he goes out of his way to be as heavy as possible, almost pulling her shrieking and laughing to the floor along with him. She shushes him between snickering. “The neighbours!” she whisper-shouts at him. “They’re going to _complain,_ quit it.” 

Tim snickers at her, but cooperates the next time she pulls at his hands, helping her lever him up onto his feet. They stumble together into her bedroom, and collapse onto the sheets together there. They should get under the sheets, probably, but she feels hot enough to comfortably fall asleep without them. That’s probably the champagne talking, though. 

For a long time they just lie there, and she listens to Tim’s even breathing. It’s a soothing sound, like a white noise machine. She has the idle thought to record it just for that sort of purpose, but she’s too comfortable where she is. She doesn’t want to move a single inch. 

The sound of his breathing moves closer. She feels it on her face. She opens her eyes, and he’s lying very close now, facing her. She could count his eyelashes if she wanted to. Maybe she can fall asleep that way. It sounds more fun than counting sheeps, at least. 

“Hey,” she says. 

“Hi,” he says. He’s looking at her very carefully. She wonders if she has something on her face. “I… had a question.” 

“Yeah?” she prompts him, and the next time she blinks, she lets her eyes stay closed. They do this often too, whenever they end up doing this. Talking softly with each other until they drift off mid conversation. She likes it. 

“If you got pricked by the rose,” he says, and there’s a sort of weird tone to his voice, but she can’t quite pick out how, “who do you think would be your target?” 

“Hm,” she says, eyes still closed. It’s an interesting question, she supposes, the kind that doesn’t really have a proper answer. Like a hypothetical, _what would you do if you won the lottery? If you had a superpower, what would it be?_ Just something silly and inconsequential to talk about and pass the time with. “I feel like that’s a long list of potential targets. I’m _the_ Sasha James, after all.” 

He laughs softly at that, and she can feel the gentle puff of air across her face. He smells like champagne, mostly. 

“Fair. Cop out answer, but fair. What about me?” he asks. “If I got pricked by the rose, who do you think I’d get?” 

_Me,_ she stops herself just in time from saying. 

Sometimes, Tim feels like a confidante. Someone she could tell anything to. It’s true, even. Almost true. But she knows that it’s possible to hurt people with just your words, and that holds true even for Tim. She doesn’t want to hurt him, not ever. There are some things she can’t say even to him. Especially to him. 

“Don’t know,” she says instead, and doesn’t open her eyes to see whatever look flashes over his face at that. “Rosie, maybe? She seems to think you’re cute.” 

“She talks to me like I’m her favorite nephew,” he says, and oh, that’s good. He doesn’t sound particularly affected. She must not have hurt his feelings then. Good. 

“That could be her kink.” 

“A _nephew fetish?_ That’s… so specific, it somehow makes it worse.” 

“I’m calling it. She wants to be your sexy aunt.” 

“You’re awful.” 

“And the best,” she says, and he doesn’t disagree. They trail off into a peaceful silence after that. She’s just on the verge of falling asleep, when Tim breaches the silence again. 

“Sasha,” is the only thing he says. 

“Hmm?” she hums. He doesn’t respond, so she squints her eyes open after a moment. 

He sets a hand on her hip, and squeezes it once, slow and firm. 

_Oh,_ she thinks, and something in the pit of her belly _swoops_ and the creeping nausea and tiredness is _gone,_ she’s back to feeling light and giddy. She knows that Tim can make her feel even lighter and giddier. He’s good at that sort of thing. She knows from experience, even if it was only the once. 

“D’you want to?” he asks her softly. 

_Yes._ Yes, she wants to. Tim’s good at sex, he’s fun, he’s her friend, she likes him. It would feel so good, be so fun. A perfect way to celebrate after weeks of tension and frustration. 

She instantly knows that she can’t. Just how she can’t tell him that she’s pretty sure that if he pricked himself on the rose, he’d come and find her. He’d kiss her and laugh into it, and he’d help her out of her clothes while making dumb jokes, and he’d touch her and it would be light, friendly. He’d act like himself, and he’d fuck her, and it would be nothing more than two friends doing something fun that feels good together, helping each other let out some pent up steam. It would all feel so easy. No pressure, no heavy weight. 

She’d be his target, because she’s had sex with him before, and she’d had fun. She’s been wanting to do it again ever since. And she thinks he does too. He makes jokes about it sometimes, just rarely enough that it isn’t a habit, isn’t something he does often. He just… brings it up sometimes. Casually. Leaving the door open for an encore, she suspects. 

It should be the perfect arrangement. They both get along so well, like each other so much. They could have a lot of fun together. 

But she can’t. She knew as soon as she saw the look on his face when they lay in her bed sweaty and spent in the wake of their afterglow that she couldn’t ever let it happen again. He’d looked _besotted._ Smitten. She’d seen so much love in his eyes, and it wasn’t the sort of love that she feels for him, or anyone. 

She could probably get away with it. She could say yes, let’s do it, right this instant, and he’d pound her into the goddamned mattress and she’d feel _excellent._ And then the next morning she could act like nothing of particular note had happened, and he’d follow her lead. Just like he’d done the last time. She bets she could do that as many times as she wanted, and he’d make her feel good and then not try to go any further with it every single time. Because he’s a good person that wouldn’t want to pressure her into anything. Because he’s gone for her, and would keep falling into bed with her over and over again, hoping that this would be the time that she’d kiss him good morning the next day. And she never would. 

He’s her friend. She doesn’t ever want to hurt him. It doesn’t matter how much she wants it, how fun and good it’d feel. It’d be cruel. She ends up trampling over people's feelings far more often than she’d like, but no, not Tim. He’s important. He’s her best friend. She won’t. 

She looks into his eyes, and she sees so much love there. The kind that she doesn’t feel. She’d thought that it would’ve faded away to something dim and weak by now, but it’s just as strong as the first night that she finally noticed it. 

“No,” she says. “No thanks.” 

There’s a beat of silence, like he hadn’t expected that. Then he draws his hand back, away from her hip. 

“Oh,” he says. “Okay. Sorry.” 

He moves, and she realizes that he’s moving to get out of the bed. Before she can think better of it, she reaches out and snatches his hand. 

“Stay,” she says, and is that the wrong thing to say? Is she being mean, making him stay here after she’s turned him down? Does he want to be alone? 

“... Alright,” he says, and lies back down. She tells herself that she has to trust him. If he wants to be alone, then he’ll say that, he’ll tell her. 

She’d thought that this whole-- unrequited feelings thing, she’d thought that it had been going away. Like a plant that withers away if you don’t water it. She hasn’t been watering it. Right? 

Does sharing a bed with him count as watering it? Does inviting him back to her place for drinks count as watering it? Does leaning on him when she’s laughing too hard to keep her balance count? Does hugging him count? Does talking about things that bother her count? 

She doesn’t want to be cruel. She doesn’t want to lead him on. But she doesn’t want to lose any of those things either. She doesn’t want to lose her best friend. It’s not _fair._

She’s realizing, with a dawning sort of dismay, that she’s actually going to have to talk about this. Address it. She doesn’t want to. It can be so easy sometimes, to hurt people’s feelings, even when she doesn’t mean to. And she doesn’t ever want to hurt him. And worse, what if he hurts her? She knows that there’s a word for it, and she can explain it for him if he doesn’t already know it, she can read out the definition for him. But she’s done that for other people in the past, and it hadn’t worked. They hadn’t taken her seriously. She _hates_ not being taken seriously. He hasn’t been bad about Jon being asexual, so maybe it’s okay, but-- but maybe it isn’t. 

She struggles for a way to articulate herself, to put it into words. 

“Jon and Martin,” is what she finally settles on, and yes, this might work. 

“What?” Tim asks. “What about them?” 

“Don’t you think that it’d be more-- more romantic if Jon could want Martin back the way Martin wants him?” 

_“What?_ I-- no.” 

“Why not? It would turn the whole thing into… a love story, or a fairy tale. Martin wants Jon, Jon gets cursed, the curse gets broken, but it’s all okay because it turns out that Jon wanted the same things all along. They’re perfectly compatible in every way, so there’s no need to be sad or avoid each other. Wouldn’t that be so much easier?” 

“I-- that’s not… no. No, come on, Sasha, you have to know that’s not right.” 

“Why?” she asks him keenly. She wants to hear him say it, the way he thinks about it. 

“That’s not _reality,_ though,” he says. “Jon’s asexual. That’s a part of him. You can’t just remove it and have him still be Jon. That’d be like… taking away what a stubborn bitch he can be, or how much he loves cats, or how he only likes old lady candy. He wouldn’t be Jon. So it wouldn’t be Jon and Martin, it’d be Martin and some guy.” 

“But it’d be easier,” she says. “If we could just change him in this one way, they could get together so easily, I bet. No more shooting each other tragic looks across the office while the other one isn’t looking. They’d be happy together.” 

“Easy doesn’t mean better, and it doesn’t mean real either. I’m glad Jon didn’t get changed by the curse forever, and I’m sure he and Martin agree. Even if it is harder this way. If Martin really likes Jon, then he wouldn’t ever want to change him. Even if it means that they don’t end up together.” 

“What if,” she says, “Jon couldn’t fall in love with anyone at all. Ever.” 

“I… what do you mean?” 

“What if he didn’t just not want to have sex, but he wasn’t interested in romantic love at all. He could make friends, he could love his friends, his family, his pets, his job, his hobbies, anything. Anything but romance. Martin would have to want to change him then, right? Because he could never have him the way he wants him, if that was the case, no matter what happens.” 

Tim doesn’t say anything, so she goes on. 

“It’s too sad if Martin loves Jon, and Jon can’t ever love him back, right? It’d be more romantic if he could love him back.” 

“Sasha,” he says, and he says it in a way that makes her give up the entire metaphor. 

“Don’t you think it’d be better if I was different? Just a little bit. Just so I wouldn’t be aromantic any longer. I’d be able to fall in love with you. We could get together. We’d have fun, I’m sure we would. We get along so great as-- as friends--” 

_“Hey,”_ he says, cutting her off. He sits up in the bed and-- is he going to leave? Now that he knows that no matter how long he waits around, they’re never going to cross that threshold from friends to something else. She’d thought he wouldn’t do that, but it wouldn’t be the first time this has happened either-- 

He leans over her instead, meeting her eyes. It’s not soft and tender, but intense. Stern. Not the sort of look someone wears before they lean in for a kiss. He doesn’t. 

“You’re Sasha James,” he says. “Anyone who’d want to change a _thing_ about you is a complete idiot, alright? No matter what. And I’m not a complete idiot, actually. Just a bit of one. I don’t care if it’d be more _romantic_ if Jon could want to have sex or if you could fall in love with me. Nothing about this whole thing has been all that romantic, actually! But it happened anyways because guess what, life isn’t a romcom! And that’s fine! Okay?” 

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. She doesn’t know when it happened, but at some point she’d gone from trying to make a point, to finding out how Tim felt about this whole thing, to genuinely arguing for it. She hates that. She likes herself, she likes the way she is. She’s worked hard to be able to feel that way. 

“Okay,” she says. And, “You’re taking this better than I expected.” 

“I try not to be an asshole, generally,” he says. And then he softens, looking almost remorseful. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I never meant to make you feel-- uncomfortable or anything like that. I swear.” 

“You didn’t,” she tells him. “Honestly, you didn’t. I mostly didn’t even notice your feelings? Sorry.” 

He _laughs_ at that, and something in her goes slack with relief at the sound of it. 

“Oh, that’s good then. I’m glad. I’m… I’m gonna get over you, Sash. I promise.” 

“Are you sure? I’m _the_ Sasha James. Getting over me sounds kind of impossible.” 

“Nah,” he says. “I’ve got a plan, see. I love you. You’re my friend, my _best_ friend. I just have to… let go of a few daydreams, and then I’m gonna keep loving you, but it’s gonna be as a friend. Not as something else.” 

“That easy?” 

“Well. To be totally honest with you, I’m the kind of guy who’s a bit in love with all of my friends. So, it’ll just be a matter of making the feelings sort of… calm down. I’m sure I can manage. You know, the whole reason for why I fell for you in the first place is because we _are_ good friends, we _do_ get along. So of course I thought, man, marrying her would be such a party. I’d get to wake up next to my best friend and hang out with her every single day. That sounds awesome.” 

“We already do that,” she points out. “Or, well, not every single day, but a lot of them.” 

“Huh,” he says. “I think you’re right, Sasha. So, what point is there in dating, right? We’re already doing it! That’s great!” 

She’d been afraid, she realizes, that he was going to treat their friendship as a consolation prize. Second place, not quite what he wanted, but he’ll settle for it. But all he ever wanted was to be around her. Everything else is just details. 

She reaches up and pulls him down by his neck, and squeezes her arms around him tight, tight. She _loves_ him, loves him so much she almost can’t believe it sometimes. 

“Friends?” she asks him. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Of course. Always.” 

“Good,” she says, and closes her eyes. Good. 

Jon’s been acting weird. He has every right to act weird, of course. It’d be unsettling, actually, if he were acting like everything was normal, even if it has been a few weeks now, even if the rose is gone from the Archives and they’ve all agreed that Jon is most likely free from its influence. 

But he’s acting weird in a _different_ way, and Martin can’t help but worry. Jon can feel however he wants, and Martin shouldn’t pry every single time Jon feels an emotion and Martin can’t figure out why he’s feeling it, but-- 

But he’d promised. He’d promised Jon that he’d let him know if he wasn’t acting like himself. Jon relied on that promise to be able to relax and not second guess every single thing he ever did. Martin needs to keep that promise. He just needs to figure out why Jon’s acting weird, and then he’ll leave him to it. He will. 

Here is a list of Jon’s strange new behaviours. 

One: he keeps looking away from Martin. This would be reasonable, except he wasn’t doing it before, and he doesn’t understand what’s different now. And he keeps looking away, as in he was _already looking at Martin,_ and then he’ll quickly avert his gaze as soon as he notices that Martin’s noticed him, as if he’s trying to act like he just happened to be glancing in his direction when Martin saw him. It’s unconvincing. 

Two: Sometimes, when Martin brings him tea-- and he _is_ bringing him tea again, because Jon _does_ forget to drink anything at all if something isn’t brought to him throughout the day, and then he ends up with a dehydration migraine and he’ll wince at any loud noises for the rest of the day and pinch at the bridge of his nose with his brow furrowed tightly and he’ll sigh and grumble and snap at the slightest thing-- except it has been a really long time since he’s snapped at Martin, hasn’t it? He hadn’t even noticed with all of the drama but now that he thinks about it, when was the last time? Can he remember it? It was-- he’s gotten distracted. 

The point is, sometimes when Martin brings him tea, Jon will thank him. Sometimes absent mindedly without looking up from his work, the way he’d usually do it before. Sometimes it’s awkwardly, holding himself stiff and uncomfortable, clearly hyper conscious of his body and every single inch of distance between them. He’ll never thank him with annoyance any longer, however, the way he’d sometimes do if Martin was catching him at a bad time, or if Jon was just particularly irritated with him at the moment and thought that Martin should be doing something else instead of wasting his time with brewing tea. 

Over analyzing Jon’s tone of voice and body language every time he says _thank you Martin_ isn’t the point either. The _point_ is that almost every time Martin does this, he catches Jon rubbing at his chest at some point. Like it hurts. It’s _worrying._ Does he have heartburn or something? He wants to ask so badly it itches, but he’s clearly trying to be subtle about it, and Martin’s trying not to be overbearing. He’s already kind of pushing it, really. He is. 

Three: About once or twice a day, Jon will leave the Archives. He has monthly meetings with Elias, just to keep him abreast of any progress, and sometimes he’ll leave to go to the Research department to try and hunt down whoever was in charge of the latest cold case file he’s managed to dig up and wants to ask some clarifying questions to, and sometimes he’ll have a need to go to the library, or somewhere else. That doesn’t happen often, though. Usually he just asks one of the Assistants to take care of it for him. Jon generally stays in his office throughout the day, and if he leaves it, it’s only as far as the cramped kitchenette, the assistants bullpen, the nearest filing room, or the loo. He doesn’t just outright leave the Archives. Certainly not this often. 

Martin really wishes that this change might be because Jon’s decided to start regularly taking lunch breaks. Perhaps he’s popping off towards the nearest cafe or deli to get himself a proper sandwich. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? A _positive_ development for once. 

But no. The timing is far too inconsistent for that. There really doesn’t seem to be rhyme or reason to when Jon leaves the Archives. He can leave at the start of the day, the middle, or near the end. And the amount of time he’s gone is far too short for him to be buying and eating a meal anyways, even if it’s just a pastry or something. 

It’s weird and suspicious and worrying and Martin just wants to know what’s _happening,_ if it’s something bad, something to be concerned about. That’s all. 

So, the next time that Martin brings Jon tea and Jon says thank you (tense and carefully looking down at the papers on his desk without actually reading any of it, this time), he makes to move like he’s leaving, turning towards the door, and then snaps back around once Jon’s hand goes up to his chest. 

“That!” he says, pointing, and Jon startles so badly he almost jumps out of his chair. He looks up at Martin with wide, uncomprehending eyes, and Martin wilts a bit, lowering his triumphant, accusatory finger. “Er-- sorry for shouting. It’s just-- what is that? What are you doing?” 

“What?” Jon asks, looking completely baffled. “I’m going over a Statement? It’s-- it’s not one of the rose ones, if that’s what you’re implying.” 

“No, I mean your chest-- I mean your _hand._ Why are you touching it?” 

Jon looks down at his chest, as if surprised to see his own hand plastered to his chest. He looks back up at Martin, still looking confused, but now with an edge of annoyance to it, like Martin’s being deliberately confusing. “Presumably because you almost gave me a _heart attack,_ Martin.” 

Martin flushes, embarrassed, but he holds strong. He knows what he saw, what he’s _been_ seeing. “No, even-- even before I, er, shouted at you-- I didn’t mean to shout, sorry again-- you were touching your chest even before that. Sort of… rubbing at it? Like it hurt? Does your chest hurt, Jon?” 

“I was?” Jon says, and Martin believes all at once that Jon genuinely didn’t notice that he was doing it. Jon really couldn’t manage to pull off that look of pure surprise. He’s a _bad_ liar. 

“You were,” he says. And then, sheepishly admitting it now that it’s becoming clear that this isn’t apparently some sort of secret that Jon’s been keeping from him, “You have been, I mean. I’ve seen you do it more than a few times now. Are you sure that you’re okay?” 

“I’ve been…” he says, trailing off, his brow scrunching up in thought. It’s almost fascinating to look on as realization visibly breaks across his face like dawn across the horizon, the consideration having drawn his expression inwards, the realization springing it back out all at once, his eyes wide and eyebrows jumping up. He’s an open book. His eyes immediately dart over towards Martin, like he could possibly read what exactly has occurred to Jon just by watching his face. 

“Jon?” Martin prompts him. 

“I,” Jon says, and has to stop to clear his throat for a moment. He turns his chair around back towards his desk and reaches out to some papers on his desk, and just sort of starts… shuffling them, almost aimlessly, like a parody of ‘oh look I’m so busy, can’t talk now.’ “I’m perfectly fine, Martin. Thank you for enquiring, but it isn’t necessary.” 

“Jon,” Martin says, and he lets his voice go flat and unamused as he narrows his eyes. Jon had _better_ not be trying to hide some sort of health thing from him. “If you’re sick--” 

“I’m not sick!” Jon says, defensive and offended, as if he hasn’t come into work sick before. 

Martin’s hand twitches with the impulsive urge to reach out and touch his forehead to take his temperature, but he manages to restrain himself in time, thank god. It would’ve been embarrassing to have done that before all of the curse stuff, but _after--_ no, no. He shouldn’t be touching Jon, not if Jon doesn’t want it. Which he doesn’t. Of course. 

“If-- if you’re having heart issues--” 

“I’m not having _heart issues--”_

“If you are! Then you should _absolutely_ go and see a doctor about it, Jon. I know you like to try and tough things out, but stuff like that is _serious.”_

“‘Tough it out,’” Jon quotes him with distaste. “That makes it sound like I’m some sort of-- macho action movie star pouring vodka onto my open bullet wounds. I just don’t like to let my work pile up too much.” 

“It’s not piling up though, is it? The pile is already there! We get a new Statement about, what, once every few months? Everything down here has already been waiting for decades, it can afford to wait a few extra days here and there if you catch the flu or something.” 

“It’s _already_ been waiting for decades, and you want to make it wait even longer? That’s like deciding to take a leisurely stroll on your way to your appointment since you’re already ten minutes late, so what does it matter if you add an extra twenty?” 

“That’s not--” Martin cuts himself off as he realizes that he’s being dragged into a _stupid_ argument with Jon. He’s absolutely wrong, of course, but that’s not really the point here, and he has to remember that. He takes a deep breath to try and calm down, and focuses his most earnest expression on Jon. “If you’re having heart issues, if something doesn’t feel right, please go to a doctor to see if anything’s wrong.” 

“I don’t--” Jon says, but Martin interrupts him because he already knows from the insistent, stubborn expression on Jon’s face what he’s going to say. 

“I don’t care if you feel like you’re too young for it, or that you might be imagining it, or it’s not that bad, or you don’t want to take time out of your schedule to check on something that might be nothing. Just-- _please,_ Jon. Please.” 

The idea of walking into Jon’s office one day to the sight of him having a _heart attack--_ god, it feels so horribly plausible. He sleeps so terribly, eats so inconsistently, overworks himself like he’s constantly got a deadline breathing down his neck, stressed and wound up tight and frustrated. Martin _worries._ He doesn’t want to see that. He doesn’t want for that to happen. 

Some of that must bleed through in his voice as he practically begs Jon to take some basic care of himself, because his expression wavers and softens at that. 

“I… alright,” he says eventually. It has enough resignation in it to be sincere, a genuine capitulation. “If I ever wonder if there might be something wrong with my heart, I’ll go and see a doctor, Martin.” 

“Promise?” he can’t help but press. 

Jon visibly just barely resists the urge to roll his eyes with exasperation. “Yes, Martin, I promise,” he says, and again, he sounds inconvenienced enough by this promise that Martin can’t help but believe it. He doesn’t sound like he’s saying it just to get Martin off his back, _yes yes Martin I’ll be leaving soon, you can go now._

“Good,” he says with satisfaction, and tries not to feel weirdly pleased about having an _argument_ with Jon. It’s just-- that had been such a _normal_ conversation, not riddled with tension or discomfort. If it weren’t for the fact that Martin’s carefully making sure that he’s not standing too close to Jon, not crowding or looming over him, things would almost feel… fine. 

He thought he’d never get to talk like this to Jon again. He doesn’t know why he gets to, but he’s so relieved that he doesn’t want to question it. 

“Was there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?” Jon asks, sounding oh so terribly aggrieved, as if Martin’s been extorting and blackmailing him to do terrible and unreasonable things. Such as promise to go and see a doctor if his heart hurts. 

“Well,” Martin says, because there is in fact other stuff he wanted to talk to him about, and he’s here, and he _offered,_ so. “Where are you going every single day?” 

Jon blinks. “What?” 

“During work. About once or twice a day you’ll leave the Archives for a few minutes and I just… why? Where are you going? What are you doing?” 

Jon’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he seems to find his voice. “That,” he gets out, “is _hardly_ any of your business.” 

Martin flinches a bit at that. That-- he doesn’t think Jon’s snapped off anything so pointed at him since the whole curse thing happened. And he’s right, of course. It isn’t any of his business. He shouldn’t be pushing and prying like this. 

“S-- sorry,” falls out of him. “I didn’t mean-- I just--” 

Jon raises a palm up in a _stop talking_ gesture, but he’s grimacing slightly. “I… apologize for snapping,” he says stiltedly, and that has the be the first time Martin’s ever heard him say _that._ It’s enough to get him to clack his jaw shut in surprise. “It’s just-- private. I don’t want to talk about it.” 

If Jon had just told some obvious lie, Martin wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from pointing it out, from pushing further. But _I don’t want to talk about it,_ that-- that’s pretty clear. That’s… okay. Jon deserves to get to keep secrets. God knows that Martin has a few of his own. Jon _definitely_ deserves to keep secrets from _Martin._

“Okay,” he says. 

Jon nods, and as Martin watches, he slowly untenses where he’s sitting. Like he’d been braced for Martin to try and get a solid answer out of him anyways. 

Martin probably shouldn’t ask him why he’s been watching Martin, should he. At least not now. He’s been nosy enough for one conversation. It’s one of the more awkward questions to ask, anyways. It’s about _him,_ about Jon paying attention to him for some reason. He’s not quite sure of how to ask it without flushing bright red, yet. 

“Anything else?” Jon asks, in a tone that begs _can this conversation be over yet?_

Martin should say no and leave. That’s exactly what he’s going to do, in fact. 

“I-- I really am sorry,” is what he says instead. 

“What for?” Jon asks after a startled moment. 

_What for,_ he asks, like there aren’t a dozen, a _hundred_ things that Martin has to be sorry for at this point. What is he apologizing for? All of it? 

“The quitting thing,” he says, and yes. Yes, that’s the one. All of the other stuff-- those are things that have happened. But this is _still_ happening, every single moment of every single day. It hasn’t been fixed yet, and he doesn’t know if they’ll be able to figure out a fix at all, not like they had with the rose. “I’m sorry that you can’t quit, Jon.” 

“That’s-- that isn’t your fault, Martin. I mean, we don’t know quite what it is, but it’s clear to see that whatever this is, it’s been going on long before you were even born.” 

“I’m… I know it’s not my fault,” he says, and it’s a lie. Jon not being able to quit isn’t his fault, that’s true. But Jon _wanting_ to quit? “It’s just the way people say that they’re sorry that something bad has happened to you. I wish you were able to leave whenever you wanted to. I-- it’s not fair that you have to stay somewhere you don’t want to be.” 

_That you have to stay near_ someone _you don’t want to be close to._

“Well,” Jon says, but before he can finish what he’s saying Martin has to continue, he has to get this out. He wants for Jon to know that he’s at least _trying,_ he really is. 

“A-- after I found out that you wanted to quit but couldn’t,” he goes on, “I started looking around for-- for another job. I’ve looked a _lot,_ I swear. It’s just that I need something that’ll pay enough because I’m paying for my mum’s medical expenses and, well, everything else and-- I wish I could give you some, some space, but I _can’t_ until I have something else lined up, she doesn’t have anyone else and I have to be able to pay for--” 

“Martin,” Jon says, but Martin can’t make himself stop explaining himself until he cuts in again, sharper this time, _“Martin.”_

Martin stops talking. He grips his hands tightly together instead, to stop himself from starting up again. 

“You’re going to quit your job?” Jon asks, a strange note in his voice that Martin feels too jittery to unravel. 

“I tried,” he says helplessly. “I, I don’t know when I’ll be able to, or even _if_ I’ll be able to, just-- I’m sorry you have to be around me. I know you don’t want to. You shouldn’t have to. It’s not fair. You can’t leave, but I can, so I should… but I can’t, not yet, my mum--” 

“I don’t-- wait. Wait. Martin. You can quit your job… but you can’t?” 

“I don’t… what are you getting at?” 

“You tried to quit,” Jon says, and his eyes are wide and bright and intense, fixed on Martin in a way that makes him want to hold his breath, “but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.” 

Martin doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say here. It’s probably not yet another apology, but he doesn’t know what Jon’s expecting. 

“Sure,” is what he ends up saying. “Yeah, that’s what happened.” 

Jon stands up from his desk so abruptly that Martin squeaks and takes a step back. Jon doesn’t take notice, instead charging with single minded purpose through his office door into the wider office space. 

“Tim! Sasha!” he says with authoritative urgency. “We’re _all_ cursed!” 

“What!?” 

Sasha swears to god that she can feel a headache incoming. 

“What Martin is experiencing isn’t the same as what _you’re_ experiencing,” she argues. “You literally, physically can’t quit, despite there being nothing that’s apparent to stop you. Martin, meanwhile, is just struggling with the current competitive job market. It happens!” 

God, does she know that. She’s been making noises about finding somewhere else that she might actually have a chance of climbing the ranks for months now, and she’s still exactly where she is. 

“I think--” Martin says, but Jon cuts him off without so much as glancing in his direction. 

“That’s because he was waiting to have a new job lined up before he tried quitting, and I didn’t,” Jon says insistently. It’s incredible how much confidence he can show in a theory that he has _zero evidence_ to back it up with. “All the curse has to do to stop Martin from leaving is to steer him away from any viable job opportunities. With me, it had to be more blunt and straightforward. A last resort, perhaps.” 

“Maybe--” Tim tries, but Sasha talks over him. 

“And how exactly do we _prove_ this _hypothesis_ of yours? If Martin never finds a good enough job to go to instead, is that going to prove your theory to be fact? If we all die here from old age, are you correct? Am I going to have to arrange for him to find a new career? Is that what it’s going to take to get you to give this up?” 

“Guys--” Martin attempts. 

“I actually already have an experiment in mind,” Jon says self importantly. 

“You--” Tim says. 

“Oh?” she challenges. “What’s that?” 

“Simply quit,” he says, along with a theatrical shrug. “Or try to, that is.” 

“Maybe we should just… let this play out?” Martin asks in an aside, presumably to Tim. “Let them get it all out?” 

“Alright, but if they start pulling hair then you have to help me tear them apart.” 

Sasha laughs, less in an amused ‘how funny!’ way than a derisive ‘you have to be joking’ sort of way. “I have to _quit_ my _job_ to prove to you that we’re not all cursed?” 

“Well, any one of you would do, really, but it would be a better sample size if _all_ you attempted it… It’s not as if it’s going to be an issue anyways, it won’t work. And if it does, against all odds, then I promise that I’ll hire you right back.” 

“Would that even count as a firing?” she asks skeptically. “Doesn’t there have to be, you know, paperwork and such involved?” 

“We could file paperwork as well, if necessary,” he says. “And then shred it before anyone outside of this room sees it. It’ll be like it never even existed then, right? A five minute firing, just between the four of us.” 

This experiment is becoming increasingly viable, and for some reason, that kicks off a sense of panic in her chest. Like she doesn’t want to try and see if Jon’s theory holds water, even though she’s sure that it doesn’t. So why even entertain it? Why humor him? Why waste the time confirming something that she already knows? 

To prove him wrong and make him shut up about things that obviously aren’t true, of course. She should just get this little experiment over with so that they can get back to moving on. 

She doesn’t want to. She desperately doesn’t want to. Why? 

“Sasha,” Martin says, finally able to cut in now that it’s Sasha's turn to respond, and instead of doing that she’s just standing here, frozen. “When you were looking into the history of the Institute, seeing if there had ever been a single Head Archivist who quit or was fired-- did you do the same for the assistants?” 

“No,” she says. No, of course not. Why would she? Jon’s not an assistant, he's the Head Archivist. Looking into the assistants as well would just be a huge waste of time. There’s no indication, no reason to suspect that archival assistants are cursed as well. That they’re trapped. 

That she’s trapped. 

She isn’t trapped here. She can’t be. 

“Well, perhaps if you did, you’d find the exact same thing,” Jon says, pouncing on the victory. 

She’s shaking her head when Tim says, “Oh, screw it, I’ll do it.” 

Her head snaps around to look at him. “Tim, don’t.” 

“It’s just for five minutes, like he said,” he says. He clears his throat and straightens up, and a thunderous frown slides over onto his face. “Boss. _Jon._ I’ve had _enough_ of this place. I’ve worked here for years-- years! And I’ve never once gotten a raise, or a promotion, or maternity leave. I’ve demanded twice as much vacation time and a retirement pension and also a gold watch, but where are they? Where’s my reserved parking spot? I don’t care that I don’t have a car, it’s the principle of the thing! You don’t respect me! None of you do! If I ever left this place, it’d fall apart without me around to carry you incompetents. In fact, you know what? I--” 

His mouth works silently for a moment. The exaggerated self righteous anger falls away, leaving behind something far more authentic and vulnerable in its place. He looks _frightened._ He’s trying to say something, and he’s being stopped. 

“Tim?” Martin asks, his voice going thin with concern. 

“Tim, you should stop trying,” Jon says. “Just breathe for a moment.” 

“Is this a joke?” Sasha asks. That’s it, it has to be a-- just a joke, a stupid prank. Tim likes those. 

Tim stops visibly straining, and sets a hand on the nearest desk for support as he hunches over where he stands and just breathes, like he’s feeling winded. He shakes his head silently. Her heart is beating double time. He shakes his head. 

She knows Tim. She knows his sense of humor. He wouldn’t play a joke now, not about this, not something that’s still so raw and touchy for Jon. And _Jon_ is terrible at pranks, at secrets. He isn’t in on it. There’s nothing to be in on. 

“... I want to--” Martin says, and then his voice cuts abruptly off like someone’s thrown a switch, hit a mute button on him. It’s not like his usual stammering, stumbling over his words. She watches as panic rises in his eyes as he realizes all at once that he isn’t in full control of himself. 

Jon, Tim, and Martin have all tried and failed. She’s the only one remaining. She should try. She should make certain of it, make sure that all of them are affected. 

Maybe she isn’t affected. Maybe she’s the one exception here. Maybe she can quit whenever she wants to, whenever she feels like it. Even if she’s wanted to move onto a different job for months now. Even though there’s no reason for her circumstances to be different from Martin or Tim’s. 

That isn’t logical. 

She swallows the heavy lump in her throat, and tries. 

“Fuck,” is the first word anyone speaks several minutes later. It’s Tim, sounding breathless. “Shit.” 

“Yeah,” she agrees. Her throat feels a bit raw, like she’s been screaming. She hasn’t said a single thing, though. 

“This isn’t ideal,” Jon says. 

“... But?” Martin asks. 

“What?” 

“This isn’t ideal, _but?”_

“I-- I wasn’t going to add anything else. This simply isn’t ideal. It’s-- quite unfortunate, actually.” 

“Quite unfortunate,” Tim repeats blankly. 

Sasha puts her face in her hands and _screams_ into them, muffled but still loud. 

God, she’d _so badly_ wanted for Jon to be wrong. 

“... Sasha?” Martin asks, very tentatively. “Are you okay?” 

She takes a deep breath, makes sure that her expression is clear, and then sits back up straight again. “Great,” she says. “Fantastic. Alright, so let’s figure this out. We can’t quit, even in a private semi unofficial sort of way between the four of us. Jon’s tried quitting over email and letter, and that hasn’t worked either. We most likely can’t quit for each other, as we’re all suffering from the same curse.” 

“We could try,” Martin says. 

“Sure,” she says. “And we can look into the history of all of the archival assistants as well. Maybe there’s a point where all of the assistants became suddenly unable to quit, or we’re the first generation who has to deal with this, or there’s been an exception or two that we can look into. Any of those possibilities would give us something to work with.” 

“We can’t quit,” Tim says. “But does that really matter? Even if we can’t say the words or make it official, what does it matter if we stop coming to work? If we moved away and got a job at some store on the other side of the country? I know we can leave London for an extended period of time, I did that for one of my old uni friend’s wedding a bit ago.” 

“Um,” Martin says. “Um.” 

They all turn to look at him. 

“Spit it out, Martin,” Tim says. 

“I, er, you know when I was taking some extended sick leave? I stayed away for two whole weeks. The reason I came back… I just-- I felt so _awful,_ and there was this feeling that if I’d just go back to the Institute, I’d feel better. Like the thing that was making me sick was me not going into work, and staying at home was just making me worse and worse. As soon as I came here, I felt a lot better.” 

“Why didn’t you _say_ anything?” Jon demands. 

“I thought it was all just in my head!” he says. “Like-- like it was just my anxiety or psychosomatic or something, my own body trying to trick me into-- to--” 

Into coming and seeing Jon, even though he felt like didn’t deserve to ever see him again. He’d practically told her as much, when she’d come to see him after the curse broke. He thought that he’d wanted to see Jon again so badly that he’d subconsciously come up with an excuse for it. 

“What sort of sickness?” she asks him. 

“What?”

“Like, nauseous? Feverish? I’d like some details.” 

“Um-- achy. Cold. My head hurt a lot. The sort of migraine that makes it almost impossible to think. I felt sort of… slow, and disoriented.” 

“How pleasant,” Tim says. 

Martin grimaces. “It wasn’t great.” 

“When did it start?”

“A week and a half in? Until then I felt normal, but then I got a headache that wouldn’t go away even after I’d taken some paracetamol. It lingered for the whole day, and was still there when I woke up the next day, even worse. I get headaches pretty rarely, and there’s usually a reason when I do. It-- it got worse pretty quickly after that. Each day was so much worse than the last.” 

“That reminds me of the rose,” Jon says. “I became sick when I was away from Martin too long. It felt the same way.” 

“Except the rose definitely isn’t at fault for this,” Sasha says. “Even if we discount the evidence of every single past Head Archivist not quitting, there’s the fact that you’re the only one that was affected by the rose, and yet we’re all suffering from this. Even if you count Martin as well, reasoning that he might be suffering some sort of after effect from the rose due to his role as the target-- Tim and I never touched it, or had anything even vaguely to do with it. Well, I lifted it out of your bin with some tongs-- but even if that somehow counts, Tim had even less to do with it. It’s not the rose, whatever it is.” 

“I’m not arguing that,” Jon says. “But perhaps it’s some sort of… clue? A sign? That the rose and this curse have something in common.” 

“Maybe it works on the same logic?” Martin suggests. “The way to breaking the rose’s curse sort of made sense, in a weird way.” 

“Does it?” Sasha asks. “Because I’m not seeing it. You broke the rose’s curse by firmly telling Jon that you didn’t want him--” Out of the corner of her eye she catches Tim shooting a brief grimace at her, and she bites back a flare of annoyance, because she’s messed up and said something tactless _again,_ apparently. How is stating a blatant fact an insult? She’ll never understand it. She decides to just plow on for now instead of calling attention to it. “-- but the problem with this curse is that we can’t say what we want to say, that we don’t want this job. What is the secret solution?” 

“Perhaps it comes from the same source?” Tim suggests. “If both curses produce some of the same effects.” 

It would be convenient if it was just one-- what, a witch? A ghost? A natural wellspring of unholy supernatural power that spits out cursed objects on a biannual basis somewhere in the world? It really bothers her sometimes, that she knows that the supernatural is real, and yet there isn’t a handy manual about it listing off taxonomies and categories and what’s real and what’s fake and where it all comes from and how it all works. But that’s why she’d gone into this line of work. To be the one who finally writes that manual down. If anyone can do it, she can. 

“If the rose is the object that cursed me,” Jon says slowly, “then what is the object that has cursed all of us?” 

There’s a beat of silence as they all consider this. 

“It might just be the whole building,” she says at last. “Who’s to say that a cursed item has to be something that you can hold in your hand? It could be an entire building, probably. Why not?” 

“So,” Tim says, “what you’re saying is…?” 

She knows what he wants for her to say, and despite everything, it makes her grin a bit. 

“Yes, the Archives _might_ be haunted,” she grants him. 

“I’ll take it!” he says. 

“We’re going to figure this out,” Jon says, and she’s startled for a bit by the sheer certainty in his voice. “If-- if the three of you were able to manage the rose curse, then you’ll be able to handle this as well. And I-- I’d like to assist as well, this time. Now that I’m able.” 

“Aw, boss,” Tim says. “Of course you’re gonna help! Like we’d let you get away with slacking off while we’re all slaving away over here.” 

It’s only as Jon’s shoulders slacken with the sudden absence of tension that she realizes that they’d been tense in the first place. Why? Did he think they were going to exclude him or something? Not want his help? It hadn’t even occurred to her that he wouldn’t be involved, honestly. Well, it doesn’t matter. Tim had noticed, and he’d taken care of it. They cover each other’s weaknesses, that way. 

They’re a good team. 

“I guess we’ve got a new project to work on, then,” Martin says gamely. 

“Right,” she says, and claps her hand and gets up. “Best get to work, then.” 

They do. 

Jon’s leg has been jittering for the last twenty minutes. Every time his concentration slips, his focus homing in on what he’s reading, he’ll lose control of his leg again, and he’ll realize a few minutes later that it’s been bouncing restlessly the entire time without him even realizing it. He’s all alone in his office, there’s no one around for him to bother, but-- it’s a bad habit. His teachers had said so, his grandmother had said so. He’s supposed to be better than bad habits. He has gray in his hair, for god’s sake, he should be over this by now. 

He shouldn’t have drank the tea Martin gave him. Bouncing his leg, or otherwise aimlessly fidgeting when he isn’t paying attention to his body and very deliberately keeping it still isn’t necessarily a ‘I need to use the restroom’ thing, but it certainly doesn’t help. 

He could just use the restroom. 

He doesn’t want to use the restroom. 

He shouldn’t have drank the tea. He’d been planning on not drinking the tea. But Martin had brought him it, and what was he supposed to say? ‘Get that swill away from me’? Ridiculous. So he’d thanked Martin for it and determined to simply let it sit there and cool, untouched-- and then he’d looked up from the Magnus Institute employment records Tim had successfully managed to dig up from a moldering file room tucked away in some dusty corner and realized that he was trying to sip from an empty mug. Because he’d managed to absent mindedly drink the entire thing while he was reading without ever once making the deliberate choice to do so. He doesn’t like it when his body decides to do things without notifying his brain, as often as it happens. 

He drank the tea and he needs to use the restroom and he doesn’t want to use the restroom. He’d been planning on just not drinking anything today, just having some water when he came home, dehydration headache be damned. Martin had _noticed._ He’d pointed it out, asked about it. Jon doesn’t know how to explain to him that he doesn’t want to use the restroom down here in the Archives, and instead has to use the one on the floor above them. He doesn’t want to. 

He realizes that he’s been rereading the same paragraph for five minutes now. His leg is jittering again. He reaches down with one hand and presses down on his thigh with it, stilling it, reproving. He lets go. He tries to read the paragraph, take in what it’s saying. 

His leg is jittering again. 

Jon gives up, and gets up to go and use the restroom. Tim flicks his eyes up from his work and shoots him a brief smile as he notices him, and Jon gives him a nod. Sasha, wearing headphones, doesn’t seem to even notice his existence as she keeps her focus on her work. Martin looks at him, and then looks away. Jon can’t help but feel hyper conscious of that, of him. Martin noticed that he’s been leaving the Archives for his restroom breaks, these last few weeks. He doesn’t know why, but he knows. If Jon does it again, he’ll notice it again. He might eventually put the pieces together, and then he’ll ask. And Jon doesn’t know how to answer. 

For the first time in almost a month now, he doesn’t head towards the doors that head out of the Archives, and instead down the hall that’ll lead towards the small restroom on this floor that basically only the four of them ever use. It’s a small thing with fluorescent lighting that buzzes harshly and three stalls and sinks, as if there would ever be a need for three people to be using it at a time. It’s fine. It’s not a big deal. He’ll be in and out, no problem. He’s honestly probably just been over dramatic these last few weeks, going so much out of his way to try and avoid a very minor thing, to be frank. It’s good that circumstances are pushing him to just get over himself already. 

He goes into the restroom. He does what he came here to do. He washes his hands. 

As he does so, he flashes _vividly_ back to the sensation of washing lube off his hands after he’d carefully, clumsily worked himself slick and loose. He blinks rapidly to try and get the image out of his mind, and he sees the same tiles he’d braced himself against for balance as he’d reached back with one hand and hissed swears as he went too far too fast and had had to recalibrate, try again. 

He hadn’t even enjoyed it, is the thing. He’d just been focused on being a slick, warm hole for Martin to slide into. It had seemed so important back then, he hadn’t even questioned it. He remembers being so _convinced_ of that, feeling it, believing it. 

Remembering it almost makes him feel dizzy, disjointed. How could he have had those thoughts, and not even wondered that something odd was happening? It had all felt so… so natural. 

He reaches out with a fumbling hand to turn the tap off, and realizes that his hand is shaking. Damn it. How long had he been just staring ahead into the distance as water ran over his hands? Is he breathing right? Is he going to burst into tears again, like the last time he was here? He _hates_ that, he hates it when it happens. 

It’s been happening less now, ever since he started listening to Martin’s advice. Get it out of the way when he’s safe and alone in his flat, and it’s less likely to happen in public or at work. Less humiliating, even if it still feels strange to _let_ himself cry. Surprisingly cathartic, when he’s doing it on purpose. Crying usually makes him feel weaker. But maybe that’s because it’s always been something that happened despite all of his best efforts, until now. 

He listens to himself breathe. It sounds loud and ragged, especially in the unforgiving acoustics of the restroom, and he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. But he doesn’t sound like a wheezing, dying animal either, and when he touches his face, he doesn’t feel any tears. Good. Good. Better than last time so far, then. 

He wishes he wouldn’t panic over innocuous things. First a serious case of arachnophobia, and now a fear of one very particular restroom. Honestly, it’s ridiculous. It’s not like the _restroom_ hurt him. He hadn’t even been upset when that particular part had been happening. It just makes him feel… strange, to relive it. To remember how different his thoughts had been. 

He wants to leave. He wants to leave _now,_ but he should wait until his hands stop shaking at least. Until he regains complete control of his breathing, and the face he sees in his reflection doesn’t look quite so ashen. He grips the porcelain edge of the sink tightly and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to convince his body that it’s being _irrational,_ panicking over nothing. He stands there and forces himself with an iron grip to breathe measured and steady, in and out, in and out. Eventually, his body will have to get the message. 

The door opens. He opens his eyes and he sees Martin in the reflection behind him. 

“Oh,” Jon says, quiet and ragged. That’s not good. He doesn’t look normal yet. He can see a shiny layer of fresh sweat on his brow, and he still feels strangely off balance, fragile. If he let go of his white knuckled grip on the sink, his hands would probably continue to tremble. Does his voice sound normal? He can’t tell. 

“You were gone for a really long time,” Martin says, wide eyed and frozen in the doorway. “I got worried, so-- so I thought I’d just go and check really quickly that you hadn’t-- slipped and cracked your head or something.” 

“I see,” he says. He doesn’t think his voice sounds normal. He’d lost more time while he’d been washing his hands than he’d thought, then. 

“I’m sorry-- do you need something? Can I-- can I get you anything? Or do you want for me to call someone?” 

It’s obvious to Martin as well then, that _something’s_ happening. That’s not what he’d wanted. He’s so tired of being a burden on the rest of the department, an obstacle to work around as they all solve the problem not only without his help, but despite him. It’s supposed to be different now, now that he’s not cursed by the rose any longer. He’s supposed to be-- to be in _control_ of himself. Not desperately trying to keep himself from falling apart because he saw some familiar tiles. 

“Jon,” Martin says, stepping further into the restroom, letting the door fall shut behind him, and Jon realizes that he hasn’t responded yet. That his breathing is growing more ragged again, his control slipping further. He stops breathing entirely, holding his breath to try and just stop that awful, loud sound for a moment. “Hey, no. Breathe. Please? Like this.” 

Martin breathes in and out, smooth and loud, exaggerated. Jon closes his eyes and makes himself breathe with Martin, his lungs aching. He shouldn’t need help with _breathing,_ what’s _wrong_ with him-- 

“Yeah, that’s good,” Martin says, and something in his chest jolts at that, and not in a bad, panicky sort of way. He keeps breathing the way Martin demonstrated and resists the urge to set a hand over his chest, right over where a now familiar feeling is growing. Because that’s something he does _regularly_ around Martin, apparently. He’d noticed the tell before Jon had. Martin is far more observant than Jon had ever given him credit for. He has to be careful if he doesn’t want for Martin to realize Jon’s new feelings for him. He’s caused enough discomfort as it is. 

Finally, after a long few moments, he feels like he’s breathing like a normal human being again. He opens his eyes. Martin is standing behind him, carefully out of arm's reach as always, looking a bit like he wants to spirit Jon away to bundle him up in a blanket or something. 

“Thank you for your-- assistance,” Jon says stiltedly, feeling deeply exhausted. Losing and regaining control of himself is tiring. He wants to lie down somewhere and not think for the rest of the day. Which he won’t, of course. There’s so much work to do, and he won’t make his assistants do all of it. There’s been enough of that for a lifetime. He feels so tired he almost can’t bring himself to feel embarrassed over Martin catching him in this state. 

“Of course,” Martin says softly. And then, “Is this what you’ve been sneaking off to do each day?” 

“What?” Jon asks. 

“I-- I’m sorry, I just-- have you been having a panic attack every single day?” 

“I don’t get panic attacks,” Jon says, because this is a fact that he knows about himself. Sometimes he gets overwhelmed and scared and he loses control of his shaking hands and his uncooperative lungs and his humiliating tears, but Jonathan Sims doesn’t get panic attacks. He knows this. 

Martin gives a single bark of a laugh, not sounding particularly amused despite that. “Right,” he says. “Of course. My bad for assuming. Just… have you been doing _this_ every single day? When you were leaving the Archives?” 

He sounds so painfully concerned, like the idea of it _hurts_ him. 

Jon’s hand twitches, but he stops himself from rubbing at his aching chest. It’s all in his head, anyways. And he can’t let Martin know, can’t bother him even more. He doesn’t deserve that. 

“No,” he says, and it’s the honest truth. He turns around so that he’s meeting the real Martin’s eyes, instead of just his reflection. “No, don’t worry, Martin. I was going out of my way to use a different restroom to avoid just this sort of thing, in fact. I just thought that… I’d try again, see if I’d gotten over my little-- hang up, yet. Clearly, I haven’t. But this isn’t a daily occurrence, don’t worry.” Especially after Martin forced him to stop reading the rose statements himself. 

Martin tilts his head at him in confusion, and he’s completely unbraced for how _endearing_ that is. 

“Using this restroom makes you have-- it upsets you?” 

This is exactly the question he’d been trying to avoid, when he’d decided to force himself to come back here. Well, that plan’s blown up in his face now, hasn’t it? 

He could try and lie. Except he doesn’t have anything prepared, he doesn’t know what he’d say, and-- he’s never particularly _liked_ lying. It’s uncomfortable. Screw it. Martin’s already walked in on him looking like he’s seen a ghost, he’s already humiliated himself for the day. What’s a bit more? 

“Whenever I come in here I can’t help but remember when I-- when I fingered myself open,” he forces himself to say, stumbling over the words a bit towards the end. It’s such a _crass_ thing to say. But he’s said even worse to Martin before, hasn’t he? 

Martin pales all at once, his eyes going wide with comprehension. “Oh,” he says, voice small. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Jon hurries to assure him, because Martin suddenly looks like Jon’s gone and kicked his puppy. “I just-- it’s easier to go somewhere else, when I need to use the restroom. It’s a little unpleasant, that’s all.” 

“I’m sorry,” Martin says. 

Martin has always apologized a lot. Even before all of this, apologies would fall out of his mouth for every little thing-- knocking into him while walking past him, spilling something on him or near him, sneezing, not getting a task done fast enough, accidentally snorting a laugh when Jon’s done or said something stupid in front of him, the list goes on. It’s happening even more now, though, and it feels less like a verbal reflex and more like something sincere and wretched. And it bothers him so much more now than it had used to. He doesn’t want for Martin to feel sorry around him all of the time, he realizes. He wants for him to just-- be at ease. To feel comfortable enough not to keep this careful distance between them all of the time, like Jon’s going to suddenly lunge for him. 

God, he didn’t think that he’d miss Martin touching him so much. He hadn’t even done it all that often, before. Their hands would brush against each other sometimes when Martin would hand over a file or a mug of tea, and that was about it. Jon hadn’t put much thought into it, even if he feels like he can recall every single time that it’s happened. But he _misses_ it, misses it so keenly that it aches. 

“It’s fine,” he tells him tiredly. He wishes things truly were fine. He’s exhausted by this, by all of it. He wishes things would get easier, already. 

Things are easier though, aren’t they? They’re easier than they were a few weeks ago, at least. Things are getting better, very slowly. It makes him feel so _impatient_ though, how slowly it’s happening. He wishes he could rush it forwards even faster. 

“It’s not, though,” Martin says miserably. “I shouldn’t have wanted-- I’m sorry all of that happened. It _sucks.”_

“It wasn’t all bad,” Jon says. 

Martin gives him an incredulous look. “Wasn’t it?” 

“It was fairly bad,” he admits. “But… the three of you, you and Tim and Sasha, you were there for me for every single moment of it. I’d lost control of myself, but I wasn’t helpless. Because I had all of you helping me. I-- I’ve had nightmares since then, about something like this happening to me _again,_ but do you know what helps me calm back down each time? Knowing that even if it did happen, the three of you would help snap me out of it, no matter how difficult it may be.” 

That’s something he’s been thinking about. Back when he’d almost been eaten by Mr. Spider, it had haunted him how _coincidental_ his rescue had been, how it had just barely happened. He’d been saved by a hapless bully and sheer luck, and that was it. He couldn’t rely on that to save him the next time, if there were a next time. 

But Martin and Tim and Sasha-- he can rely on them. They’ve shown him that, so firmly and undeniably that he can’t possibly ignore it. He lost control of himself, and they did everything in their power to help him regain it. With Mr. Spider, he’d had no one. Now he has _three_ people in his corner. Despite everything, that can’t help but make him feel… secure. There’s no guarantee that he won’t be hurt again, but he won’t have to face it alone. He knows that down to his bones, now. 

“We would,” Martin says quietly. “Of course we would.” 

There’s something Jon’s been wanting to tell Martin. He realizes that now is as good a time as any. 

“Back when you told me that you tried to quit for my sake,” Jon says, “I was going to correct you on something, but I was distracted by my realization.” 

“Yes?” 

“I… I don’t want to quit. I’m not trapped here against my will, suffering your presence every single day. I hope you know that. I’d appreciate having the option of leaving, of course, but when I tried to quit that first day after the curse broke I… it was a rash, impulsive decision and-- I just couldn’t imagine meeting your eyes. Or Tim’s, or Sasha’s. Not after what had happened, everything that I’d said and done. But then I was prevented from leaving, and I saw and spoke to all of you again anyways and I… it wasn’t so bad. You _made_ it not be so bad. Thank you, for that.” 

“Jon,” Martin says, and he looks like he’s on the verge of tears. It’s a bit worrying, a bit anxiety inducing. Jon hopes it’s the _good_ kind of ‘on the verge of tears’, that he’s touched. 

Behind him, the edge of the sink digs into his back. The fluorescent lights hum harshly. That had been the only sound when he’d been stubbornly working himself open, that and his own strained breathing, and the slick sound of-- 

“Could we-- could we leave?” Jon says, and Martin blinks rapidly as he comes back from somewhere in his head, apparently. “From the restroom, I mean. I just--” 

“Oh,” Martin says, and Jon watches as he remembers that yes, Jon had just confessed to him only some minutes ago that he does not find this room to be particularly pleasant. “Oh, of course! Yes, right! Sorry! We don’t need to stay here, let’s leave.” 

Martin holds the door open for Jon, and Jon makes himself walk slowly enough that he hopefully at least _looks_ like he isn’t fleeing. The door swings shut behind him and he releases a sigh as the immediate surroundings become much less bright and harsh. The lighting in this small hallway is dim, insufficient. Reassuring, after the overwhelming fluorescents of the restroom. 

“That’s much better,” he sighs. 

“Was it-- was it so awful?” Martin asks hesitantly. Jon turns to look at him, and Martin hurries to elaborate. “I mean-- I’ve been sort of wondering about this. During the curse, you didn’t seem upset, except for when I didn’t-- when I refused to do what the curse wanted for me to do. You seemed like you… I mean, I know it was terrible for you _afterwards,_ when you realized that you’d lost control of yourself for a full week, but what about _while_ you were cursed?” 

“You want to know if I was secretly miserable the whole time?” 

“I just-- I know that the curse was supposed to make you want the same things as me. Or at least, to want what I wanted for you to want? But the thing is, I never wanted for you to want me against your will, so it’s already sort of iffy. I know I… I want for you to be happy. In all of those fantasies I had, you enjoying it was a pretty important part of it. It’s… I don’t know what would be worse, you wanting to have sex with me without even enjoying it, or being made to enjoy it as well.” 

“That’s… a hard question to answer.” 

“You-- you don’t have to. I probably shouldn’t even be asking it, god--” 

“No, it’s fine. The thing is… it’s not like I suddenly wanted to have sex? Except for how I did. What I wanted, what I really wanted, was to give _you_ what you wanted. To please you. And what you wanted was to have sex with me, so that’s what I wanted.” 

Jon had looked away off to the side as he’d grasped for the right words to explain it. It made it easier to think, to get the words out, if he’s just looking at a wall as he does so. Like he’s alone, talking to himself. But he looks back at Martin now, to see if anything he’s said makes sense. 

Of all things, Martin looks _sad._ Jon freezes up at the sight of it, like a deer in headlights. 

“That’s not all I wanted,” he says. “Those were just the-- the base, vulgar things. I want more. I want way more than just that.” 

Jon has the time for a single thought to run through his head, want he said want present tense want _present tense,_ and then he’s moving, crossing the distance between them and Jon takes Martin by the shoulders, leans up on the tips of his toes, and kisses him. Martin makes a shocked, muffled noise and for a moment he’s transported to the first day that he’d been cursed, the first time he’d seen Martin, that first kiss. He’d taken the opportunity to deepen it then, to slide his tongue into Martin’s surprised, open mouth and taste him. He doesn’t now. He’s content where he is, just kissing him, just touching him, holding him-- 

Martin pushes him away. Jon stumbles, catches his balance on the nearest wall. Martin takes several steps back, his eyes wide. Jon feels a bit like he’s been slapped in the face at that, or punched pained and breathless in the gut. 

“What the hell was that!?” Martin demands, high pitched. 

“I’m-- I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I don’t know what came over me, that was-- a mistake, I apologize.” 

“You don’t know what came over you!?” Martin asks, sounding almost strangled. His hands rise to pull at his hair. He looks _panicked._ “Oh, god, not again.” 

“I don’t-- not like that! I’m not cursed, Martin, I just-- I know what came over me. It was a fit of impulsive stupidity. It happens to me sometimes. Please, calm down.” 

“Why would you do that? Why would you kiss me?” 

Jon wishes that this were a normal situation, that he could just be rejected without having to explain himself. But Martin had said, he _said--_

“You said that you want more than just sex with me,” he says. “That is-- this is what you meant, right? Want, present tense. I thought…” 

“Stop trying to give me what I want!” 

“No! I’m not-- I’m not phrasing myself the right way! I just, I thought that it’d be _welcome…_ back when you broke the curse, you said that you didn’t want me any longer. I thought you meant entirely, at all. That I’d exhausted you to the point of extinguishing any feelings you may have for me. But if-- if you still have any of those left, then-- then I feel the same way, Martin.” 

“I can’t _believe_ this.” 

This is not how Jon had been hoping this would go. He hadn’t hoped it would go any way at all, really, as he’d had none of it, and he hadn’t planned this at all either. Surprising him with a kiss was most likely not the way to go about it, how _awful._ He’d just-- he’d been so stunned and delighted by that present tense _want_ that he’d acted without thinking, damn it. 

“This isn’t the curse, Martin,” he says helplessly. “I have full possession of all of my faculties.” 

“You can’t just _say_ that after you’ve kissed me! And claimed that you’ve got _feelings_ for me! You don’t!” He paces, his movements tight and abrupt, his expression tense and unhappy. He looks ready to flinch away if Jon makes the slightest movement towards him. Jon hates this. 

“Yes, I do.” 

“You don’t!” 

“Why not?” 

“Because you-- you just don’t!” 

“I think I’m the one who decides how I feel, thank you very much.” 

“You were just this convinced when you were cursed,” Martin throws in his face, and Jon flinches very slightly, his arms crossed. He can’t help a tiny cold tendril of doubt at that accusation, but he thins his lips and stands firm. He’s thought about this. He’s thought about this a lot, to the point of sleepless nights and countless lost hours of productivity. 

“It is-- reasonable, that you’d worry over this, after everything,” he makes himself grant. “I did too. It was no small part of why I was so convinced that I was still cursed to some capacity, to be honest. But I’ve thought about it and… this is nothing like it felt like to be cursed. At all. The way I felt about you when I was affected by the rose… that was wild and all consuming and focused largely on the carnal. It _subsumed_ me. This, however… I just see a lot of admirable things in you. I enjoy your presence, and speaking with you, and your smiles, your laugh, when you’re happy-- it’s _different._ It is.” 

“Because I told you that I don’t want to have sex with you,” Martin says, “so now the curse is trying to give me something different that I _do_ want.” 

“That’s not how the rose works, and you know it,” Jon argues. “Every single victim was made to have sex with their target. That thing works on fulfilling carnal desires in the most twisted way possible. That’s not what this is.” 

“That’s not-- I don’t--” Martin stops and takes a deep breath. The look he levels on Jon is triumphant, but not like he’s particularly happy to be winning. “What do you like about me?” 

“What?” 

“If this-- your new feelings for me, if they’re real and really come from you, then you should be able to explain why, right? To trace back the logic of it. Come on. Do it.” 

Jon remembers, all at once, the cafe. Martin asking Jon what he liked about him, trying to prove to him that there was no reason for Jon to be lusting after him. Neither of them had been able to convince the other, in the end. He’d babbled on about his hands and his mouth and his cock and-- 

“When I was cursed,” Jon says, seizing on the realization. “I told you that I liked your tea. And that I admire that you remember the small things about people, what they like, what matters to them. I said that because it’s _true,_ it’s always been true, even before I was cursed. And while I was cursed, even if I couldn’t comprehend it at the time, I noticed how far you’re willing to go for someone, just because it’s the right thing to do. How hard you’re willing to work. And afterwards-- you’re much smarter than I’ve given you credit for. Observant. You notice things, not just the things that people tell you. And the suggestions and points you come up with while we’re all trying to figure out how to research this new curse together--” 

“Stop it,” Martin says. He looks like every single kind thing Jon is saying is another twist of the knife, another mockery. 

“It’s _true,”_ Jon says, desperate, plaintive. 

“No, it’s not. I can’t be. It’s too-- too--” 

“What? Too good to be true? _Really?_ After everything we’ve gone through, all of the suffering, I don’t think it is! It’s not like this was handed to us on a silver platter, easy as you please. I think it’s-- we deserve something _nice,_ after all of this. I-- I’m very fond of you, Martin. I haven’t always been, but that’s because I was unwilling to truly see you. All of this has been-- very upsetting, but if it did anything at all, it helped me see you for who you really are. And that person is someone who’s admirable and quite-- quite lovely. I want to be… to be with you. If you don’t feel the same way, then I’ll accept that. But if you do return my feelings, if you do want to be with me, then don’t let a fear of this all being _too good to be true_ stop you, because it’s not. It’s just true.” 

Martin blinks, and a tear slips down his face. Jon realizes that he’s seen Martin near tears plenty of times during all of this, from sheer exhaustion or guilt or what have you, but he’s never seen him actually _cry._ Considering how many tears Jon himself has shed, that doesn’t seem entirely fair. Martin should get to cry too-- and Jon wants to comfort him through it. He wants to… 

Jon takes a slow, tentative step forward and holds his arms out, awkward and silently asking. He still hasn’t touched Martin yet without either of them recoiling or flinching away from it. He doesn’t think his heart can take it happening a single more time. 

Martin sways towards him like gravity centers around Jon and he just can’t help it, it’s inevitable. It’s hard to say who closes the final few inches because he takes a step forward at the same time that Martin moves, practically collapsing into his arms. Jon squeezes him tight, tight in his arms and his heart _soars_ because Martin’s touching him, he’s letting Jon touch him, and he never wants to let him go. 

He really is so tired. He’d like to rest for a while, and there isn’t a place in the world that feels as safe and reassuring as Martin’s arms, in this moment. 

“Do you really mean it?” Martin asks him, quiet and muffled into the top of Jon’s head, his hair. 

“Yes,” he says simply, because it’s the truth. “I want you, Martin.” 

Martin makes an almost wounded noise at that, and holds Jon tight and firm to his chest, like he never wants to let go either. 

And Jon is perfectly content with that. 

Tim made a rule for himself about drinking, a year after Danny died. He’s allowed to do it for celebrations, for fun. When something good happens, he can have a drink to mark the occasion. He can’t do the same if it’s for bad things. If he’s trying to comfort himself, drown his sorrows, then that’s not allowed. He’d done that a lot, after Danny. He’d found out that his sorrows weren’t the only thing that the alcohol drowned, then. He was sort of sharing the same boat with them, after all. 

So he doesn’t drag Sasha out to a pub the night after they find out that they’re trapped with their jobs seemingly indefinitely, as tempting as it sounds. He wants to cheer her up, or be a shoulder to cry on, or commiserate, or whatever it is she needs, but they won’t be doing it over drinks. He tells himself this very sternly. It doesn’t matter if it’s just one harmless little pint, he knows he has to be firm with himself on this. Things had gotten so badly out of control, back then. 

So, they do a Tesco’s run and get an absolutely _disgusting_ amount of candy instead. Not particularly healthy either, but it has to be an improvement, right? 

“I was better at eating candy when I was a kid,” Sasha groans, letting a half eaten bar of chocolate fall limply from her hand. 

“Oh, thank god,” he says, and slumps back on the couch, away from the sprawl of wrappers and shiny, colorful food on the coffee table. “Yeah, I wasn’t gonna say but-- I think we might be too old to eat ten pounds of candy in one go, Sash.” 

“How dare you,” she grumbles half heartedly. 

“It all _looks_ really good,” he says. “But I’d rather die than eat another bite, at this point.” 

She slumps onto his shoulder, and then slips and falls the rest of the way onto his lap. She doesn’t resist gravity, not moving an inch. He smooths her hair out of her face and pats her head consolingly. He’ll always have this. She’d told him so. Who needs a wedding ring, when he’s got Sasha James’ promise? It’s far more unbreakable. 

“You know,” she says dully, “when I imagined being unable to advance in the ranks, trapped forever in a deadend job, I assumed that the malevolent entity at fault would be the patriarchy. Not mysterious supernatural forces. Was that naive of me?” 

“We’ll figure it out,” he tells her. 

“But what if we don’t?” 

For a moment, he’s about to insist that no, they _can_ figure this out, they’ll find the secret solution, the way out, just like they’d done with the rose. But then she twists her head so she can look up at him, and he realizes that that’s not what she needs to hear, not right now. 

“If we’re trapped forever in the Archives, then… well, at least we’ll be trapped together, right? It’s a prison, but a prison with good company.” 

A corner of her mouth ticks up in a wry grin at that, and he knows that he’s said the right thing. She’s just found out that she’s supernaturally bound to a job that she doesn’t even want any longer. ‘Everything’s going to be okay’ is probably a bit too peppy for her to swallow right now. But letting her know that she’s always going to have him, and things are going to be a bit easier for that? She already knows that, so it won’t be as hard for her to believe when he reminds her. 

“Point,” she grants, and takes his hand with no hesitation or awkwardness. It’s all worth it, for that. 

They have no idea how bad it’s going to get. But it’s true. At least they do have each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue left


	7. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think we should tell Tim and Sasha,” Martin blurts out one day after a particularly long period of silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue ended up being too long, so it's going to be split up into two parts.

“I think we should tell Tim and Sasha,” Martin blurts out one day after a particularly long period of silence. 

Jon looks up from his book towards the other end of his couch where Martin had been reading his own book, while also intermittently scribbling something into his moleskine notebook or playing around on his phone or nibbling on a nearby snack. Jon doesn’t understand how he can stand to keep switching between different tasks like that. If Jon were doing that, he’d feel incredibly frustrated having to turn his attention away from something just as his focus was finally beginning to be captured, the rest of the world fading away into irrelevance. Apparently, continually switching between tasks keeps things fresh and exciting for him, according to Martin. Otherwise, he’ll find himself losing track of his thoughts and zoning out, blankly staring at whatever it is that he’s supposed to be doing. 

Jon had quietly absorbed that information and had made a mental note to himself to keep his mouth shut the next time it looked like Martin was procrastinating at work. Apparently, that hadn’t been what he’d been doing at all. 

“What?” he asks, blinking as he comes back to the real world. 

“I think we should tell them that we’re, you know,” he says, and he makes an expression that’s half flustered grimace and half pleased smile. Just at making himself say it out loud. It’s very dorky, and very endearing. “Dating.” 

“It’s been five days,” is all he can think to say, as if that explains anything. 

It’s been five days since Jon and Martin had hugged in that hallway, since Jon had told him that he admires him greatly, that he _wants_ him, even while unburdened by a curse. Five days since Martin had just barely been able to bring himself to believe it, to accept it. It still feels so tentative, and new, and fragile, and… well, he wants to protect it. Them. Their relationship. Just give them a bit more time to become _comfortable_ with each other, for things to feel more certain and solid before they reveal it to the rest of the world. That’s only reasonable, isn’t it? 

Hence, why their first date is _this._ Just reading quietly at Jon’s home, like they’re an old married couple that doesn’t feel a need to make a big fuss any longer. It had been his suggestion. What’s safer than this? No one else around, the environment private and familiar, safe. Martin had been fidgety at first, his tension absolutely palpable, and Jon hadn’t been much better. But he’d turned on the radio on low to a station that exclusively played music that was at least three decades old, he’d gallantly offered to peel an orange for Martin, and after a while they both had actually managed to become absorbed with their respective tasks. Jon had decided to himself that when he finished the chapter he was on, he was going to try and casually stretch out his right leg so that it was just barely touching Martin’s. 

If they can become comfortable with the idea of quietly sitting alone together in a room while not doing much of anything at all, then everything else will have to follow, won’t it? It’s a first step. 

They still haven’t kissed. Not since that first time after Martin had said _I want more than that_ and Jon had stepped forward without even thinking, and Martin had flinched back. 

It’s perfectly understandable for Martin to flinch, after everything. Jon had lost count of how many kisses he’d managed to sneak in during the curse, all against Martin’s will, leaving him skittish and wary. Of course he flinches. 

He won’t make that mistake again. He’s going to be patient, and self restrained, and understanding. He’ll wait for Martin to lean in first, to be kissed rather than kiss. He’s going to get it right, for once. He’s going to wait as long as it takes. He’s not in any hurry. Martin can take as much time as he needs. Jon won’t rush him. 

He’s still very aware of it though. How it keeps not happening. 

It’s fine. 

“Well,” Martin says. “So? Why not?” 

He doesn’t know what to say in response to that. How to articulate _this still feels so fragile just between the two of us that I’m afraid that putting any more weight on it will make it break._ Their relationship isn’t a tangible _thing_ that can be broken. It’s an agreement between the two of them to care about each other, to spend time together, to think of each other and their relationship in a certain way, in certain terms. Why would other people knowing about it jeopardize that in any way? He doesn’t know how to properly explain the fear in a way that makes it sound reasonable. He just knows that he feels it to his bones. 

Being able to lounge on a couch with Martin in quiet peace and company feels so _hardwon,_ though. So recent. He feels like he barely managed to get it, despite everything standing in their way. 

“Why should we?” is what he ends up saying, sounding argumentative even to his own ears. Childish, simple contrarianism. 

Martin blinks, as if surprised to find resistance where he hadn’t expected any. Like there being one more step on the stairs than you’d thought. 

“I thought it’d be nice,” Martin says, his voice going high with uncertainty, as if suddenly unsure if it _would_ be nice. “Since-- since they’re our friends, you know?” 

_Our friends_ blunts the prickly, defensive edge to his apprehension for some reason, just a touch. He doesn’t know which of the two words it is that does it. 

“... Just Tim and Sasha?” he asks. Martin’s never said anything else, but _our friends_ make different connotations pop into his mind instead of just _let’s tell them._ Less like they’re exposing something delicate and precious to the harshness of the world to be worn down by rough weather and hostile strangers, and more like they’re just… making something delicate and precious that’s a secret between two into a secret between four. Still protected. Still private. Just… two more people in on it. 

Jon trusts Tim and Sasha. After everything that has happened, how could he not? 

“Yeah,” Martin says. “Yes, of course. If-- if you don’t want to come out to the whole world or anything, that’s totally fine, Jon.” 

That hadn’t actually been what it was about, and he’s not sure if he should correct him on that or not. 

If he corrects him, he’s going to have to find a way to put this formless anxiety swirling in his gut at the thought of other people knowing about this, about them, about this wonderful thing between the two of them that he wants to keep safe and hidden and secret where no one else can hurt it or take it away from him into words. He doesn’t quite know how. 

“That would be good,” he says stiltedly, a beat too late for the delivery to sound entirely natural to his own ears. He ducks his head and stares at the open pages of his book like he’s reading, hoping that if he just ends the conversation quickly enough that Martin might not notice anything amiss. 

“... Okay,” he says after a long moment. Jon hums acknowledgement without looking up from his book, feeling nervous tension hum underneath his skin, but Martin doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t pursue the topic any further. He lets himself relax slowly. He won’t have to explain himself, and he won’t have to expose his relationship to the entire world either. Just Tim and Sasha. He can _handle_ Tim and Sasha. They’ve already witnessed… quite a lot from him, after all, and they were decent about it. More than decent. It’ll be fine. 

It’ll be fine, so he doesn’t know why a last lingering knot of tension stays, right between his shoulder blades, and refuses to leave. Not for the whole night. 

He ends up forgetting to reach out and casually brush Martin’s leg with his own. 

Martin resists the urge to take Jon’s hand. It’s one of the few things he’s allowed himself to do over the past few days, and it’s incredible how grounding it feels, how comforting. He wants that comfort and that grounding right now, in this moment. But he doesn’t reach out for him. 

“So, what did you guys want to talk about?” Tim asks. 

“That _couldn’t_ be talked about in the Archives?” Sasha says pointedly. She’s sitting on her couch, a container of chinese food in her hand, chopsticks in the other. But instead of eating she’s just watching them with an impatient, curious light in her eye, leaning forward towards them just slightly. 

“Well, we-- we could have probably talked about it in the Archives,” Martin says sheepishly. They talked about a _lot_ of things down in the Archives when Jon was cursed, after all. Stuff that probably wasn’t appropriate for a workplace, but was sort of necessary considering their whole situation. They had needed a ‘homebase’ where no one would overhear them talking about something completely outrageous, and their workplace down in an isolated basement had worked perfectly at the time. Chatting about it in a pub or on the tube, surrounded by strangers, just hadn’t seemed right. 

But Jon had said that it was an inappropriate and unprofessional discussion to have at work, and Martin hadn’t minded going along with that. If Jon wants to try and disentangle and compartmentalize their professional and personal lives a bit, then that’s fair. He hadn’t asked for the lines to get so blurred in the first place. 

Plus, it does help it all feel a bit more-- normal. They’re just letting their friends know that they’re dating now, as friends do. Over takeout at one of their flats. Perfectly normal. 

_It isn’t normal, though,_ a voice in Martin’s head says. He doesn’t let his expression change. 

“It just seemed like, um, kind of a weird thing to call an office meeting over,” he goes on, trying to sound light and landing somewhere on ‘awkward’ instead. He desperately reaches for his drink to take a sip, stalling for time as he tries to find the right way to phrase it. 

“We’ve started dating,” Jon says bluntly, and Martin chokes a bit on his drink. Some of it spills onto his chin, and he hunches over and wipes it off as he coughs, teary eyed. Jon reaches out and lays a hand on his back. “Good lord. You already knew that, Martin,” he says, more bewildered than exasperated. 

“I-- I know,” he chokes out. He clears his throat, sits up straight, his face flushing with either exertion or embarrassment. “I just-- I didn’t expect for you to just come right out and say it like that. You _startled_ me.” 

“Terribly sorry,” he says, a fond smile beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth. Martin melts a bit at the sight of it. Of _course_ Jon would just come right out and say it like that. What had he expected? It’s almost sort of nice, actually. He can’t help the niggling suspicion that the reason Jon doesn’t want to go public with their relationship doesn’t so much have anything to do with the closet as it has to do with _Martin._ But he’d said it so matter of factly, like it’s nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed of. 

_He still doesn’t want for_ everyone _to know, though,_ a poisonous little voice whispers in Martin’s head, and he tries to just ignore it. It makes unhelpful little remarks like that every now and then. It sounds just like his-- 

His eyes flick over to Tim and Sasha, belatedly remembering that they’re here, that _they’re_ hearing about this for the first time. They’ve both got their eyebrows raised, looking at them. 

“For real?” Tim says, not sounding like he doesn’t believe them so much as he’s just astonished. “You guys figured yourselves out that fast?” 

Martin blinks. “What?” 

“Excuse me?” Jon asks. 

“Wow, congrats, guys! I didn’t know you had it in you! I’m really impressed.” 

Sasha leans in even further, as if interested. “Which one of you broached the topic first?” 

“Um--” Martin says, feeling flat footed. 

“Wait, wait,” she says, holding up a hand. “Before you say, I want to guess. I’m betting… Jon. He’s very straightforward. _Terrible_ at keeping secrets. Tim?” 

“I’m going with Martin, then,” Tim says, not stumbling at the sudden twist the conversation has taken for even a moment. “He can really surprise you sometimes, you know. Jon?” 

“What? Do you want to know who _I_ think made the first move? In my own relationship?” Jon asks, his tone growing progressively drier with each question. 

Tim’s smile widens, and he nods. Jon sighs at him, but it’s in a bit of an exaggerated way, like he’s playing into it. 

“I think you, Tim, made the first move in my and Martin’s relationship,” he says. 

“I don’t remember that, but you say it with such confidence,” Tim says. “I’m suddenly doubting myself. Martin?” 

“I--” he says, struggling for a moment. This is _not_ how he’d thought (dreaded, hoped) that the conversation would go. They’re not even going to ask? 

They’re all looking at him, waiting for his response. Smiling and acting like nothing is wrong at all. Like he’d be the weird one for making a big deal about this. 

“Sasha,” is what he ends up saying. 

“Thank you,” Sasha says. “I feel very included.” 

Tim claps his hands. “So! Who was it?” 

Martin automatically looks over towards Jon, who’s pointedly not looking at anyone and cringing a bit where he sits. 

“I knew it!” Sasha crows, and Tim makes a big production out of being a sore loser. It manages to get a lovely chuckle out of Jon, and Martin can’t help but smile at the sound of it, despite everything. 

And then they just go on like that. They joke, and they talk, and they eat, and they laugh, the topic changing like Jon and Martin dating is interesting but not of any sort of particular _massive_ importance. And Martin goes along with it, because no one here but him seems to think that this is strange. He talks and he eats and he smiles and he feels-- weird. Like he’s lagging a step behind everyone else. Like they’re just not _getting_ it, like he’s somehow the only one who remembers everything that’s happened. Is he? God, is he? Have they somehow just all of a sudden _forgotten,_ and he’s the only exception because-- because-- 

“Martin?” Jon says, and Martin feels like he’s pulled back into the room all at once as Jon touches the bare skin of his wrist with his hand, as if to wake him. He blinks rapidly, looking over towards Jon. “Are you alright?” 

“What?” he says, and then hurries to smile at him because Jon’s brow is furrowed with real concern. “Sorry, I kind of, um, I zoned out for a bit there.” 

“Up past your bedtime?” Tim asks him. 

“It _is_ pretty late,” Sasha says, checking her phone and frowning at it as if the timestamp has let her down in some way. “You guys might want to think about getting home now, before the last train leaves the station.” 

“Wow,” Tim says. “Kicking us out, James?” 

“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” she says with a wry grin. “Seriously though, I don’t think my flat is big enough to house a four person slumber party. It’d be a tight fit, at least.” 

“We should leave, then,” Jon says. His hand is still on Martin’s wrist. They’ve touched each other, they do that. They hold hands, they hug. Martin’s been able to allow himself that without suffering some sort of heart attack or something. It’s still so new that it gets him every time, though. The subtle warmth of Jon’s skin against Martin’s. He knows that the feeling is going to linger for minutes after he lets go, and then after it’s gone it’ll come back when he least expects it as he’s falling asleep tonight, his guard down. 

“Yeah,” he says, and has to take a moment just to clear his throat. Jon stands up, and he helps pull Martin up, his hand casually sliding down his wrist to hold him by his hand. Once Martin’s back on his feet, he doesn’t let go. 

God, Martin’s going to get _such_ sweaty palms. He hopes Jon won’t notice. 

Tim stays behind for a moment to gather empty containers and used chopsticks and napkins and glasses, and Martin itches to be a good guest and help, but Sasha shoos them away like they’re stray cats that have managed to sneak their way into the back kitchen of a restaurant. And, well, he’d have to let go of Jon’s hand to do that, and. Well. He doesn’t want to. 

“Congratulations, again,” Sasha says warmly as they both walk out of the door, sounding like she really means it. “See you Monday.” 

“Thanks,” Martin replies reflexively. “You too.” 

“Have a good weekend,” Jon says. He sounds almost solemn, but when Martin looks at him, he’s smiling. He’s still so unused to seeing Jon smile for longer than just a brief moment at a time that it’s the sort of dazzling sight that he can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from. 

Sasha closes the door, and Martin has the brief, wild urge to reach out and stop her, grab the door and say _aren’t you forgetting something? Does this seem right to you?_

But Jon’s holding his hand, so he doesn’t. The door closes. 

This definitely isn’t how he’d seen this interaction going. 

They get on the elevator and leave the apartment building together, walk down the street in the direction of the nearest train station. Martin doesn’t say anything, running over the entire visit in his head, inspecting it for flaws, for where things went wrong, for what _should_ have happened. What he’d been so sure would happen. He sneaks a look towards Jon. There’s still the faint remnants of a smile clinging to the corners of his mouth, his eyes. He looks like he’s in a good mood. He’s beautiful. 

Martin doesn’t want to do anything to risk ruining that good mood, but he has to ask because he feels like he’s sort of losing his _mind,_ a bit. 

“Um, Jon?” he asks. 

“Hmm?” 

“Do you, ah, do you remember the-- the rose?” 

The smile drops off Jon’s face, and he turns his head to actually look at him, his eyes surprised and serious. “Yes,” he says simply. 

“Oh,” Martin says, and lets out a relieved laugh, his shoulders slumping. “Good.” 

Jon raises his eyebrows at him. “Was that all? You were afraid that it had somehow slipped my mind? It was hardly a forgettable experience, Martin. And it was fairly recent, too.” 

“No, no, I know. I-- I didn’t think you’d forgotten about it, just-- god, this is going to sound sort of silly, it’s just-- well, you were sort of acting like it wasn’t, you know, a thing? Like it had never happened in the first place. And then I got this weird thought in my head that maybe you’d been made to forget, because the rose did, like, it _did_ stuff to your head, and that felt like something it could maybe do. I don’t know. I know it’s stupid. I just couldn’t stop thinking about it.” He’s rambling. 

Jon blinks at him when he starts, and by the time he’s done he’s got his head tilted to the side slightly, looking thoughtful, a little bit confused. 

“It’s alright,” Jon says, but he sounds sort of distracted as he says it, his eyes moving from side to side like he’s puzzling out another problem as he’s talking. “I still ask you if you think I’m acting like myself whenever I grow worried. You can ask me questions like that as well. It doesn’t matter if it’s just in your head.” 

“Okay.” He squeezes Jon’s hand once, grateful. “Thanks, Jon.” 

“What do you mean that I wasn’t acting like it was a thing? Like it had never happened?” Jon asks him abruptly. 

“Oh,” he says, surprised. He hadn’t expected for Jon to get hung up on that part of it. “Well, just-- I guess, like, not bringing it up or referencing it at all?” And sitting relaxed and comfortable next to Martin, like it was no issue at all. 

“I often don’t do that,” he points out. 

“Yes, but-- you know, it was weird within the _context_ of the conversation.” 

“It was?” 

“Well, yeah! We were telling Tim and Sasha that we’re dating, and it didn’t come up even once. It’s-- it’s pretty on topic, isn’t it?” He runs his free hand through his hair, feeling strangely frazzled, defensive. Jon keeps asking questions and looking confused and a little bit frustrated at being confused, as if _Martin’s_ the one acting strange. He’s not. Everyone _else_ is being strange, and he doesn’t understand why. “And, well-- it’s not just because you didn’t mention it. _They_ didn’t mention it either. Not even one question! It was really weird, Jon. Wasn’t it?” 

“... Were you expecting for them to ask questions?” 

“Well, yeah. How couldn’t they? I was sort of hoping that they could give us a second opinion on whether or not this--” he gestures his free hand between the two of them, “--is okay or not.” 

Jon lets go of his hand. 

“We have two opinions between the both of us,” he says, and Martin startles at how _cold_ his voice suddenly is, like a switch has been flipped. “Why would we need their _blessing_ as well?” 

Martin is hit with the sudden, overpowering feeling that he’s let himself ramble on unfiltered and unchecked for too long, and he’s ended up putting his foot in his mouth and said something incredibly tactless or awkward again. He does that sometimes. 

“Jon,” he says, feeling like a man who’s only realized several steps in that he’s walked into quicksand, “I just-- I thought it’d be reassuring, is all. They’re-- they’re a bit more removed from the whole thing than either of us, so maybe they can be more objective--” 

“Is _this_ why you wanted to tell them?” Jon asks him sharply, and Martin flinches at the familiar tone. He hasn’t heard it in a while, but it hadn’t been so long ago that he’d heard it on an almost daily basis from Jon. “You _still_ don’t think that I want to be with you out of my own free will?” 

“I--” he stammers, his mouth abruptly feeling drier than it’s ever been. 

Jon’s face twists as Martin clumsily fumbles for words instead of immediately denying the accusation. It’s not anger, but _hurt,_ and the expression is like a punch to Martin’s gut. It steals his breath away. 

“I think,” Jon says, “that I’ll take a cab home. Goodnight, Martin.” 

And Jon walks away, rather than walking with Martin the rest of the way to the station. 

“Thanks for cleaning up,” Sasha says. 

“No problem at all, ma’am,” Tim says. “Really, I enjoy it. Thank you so much for the opportunity to toss some used containers into your bin. It’s an honor.” 

“You’re welcome,” she says sweetly. “Would you like some help with your coat, sir?” 

“Oh, not yet. I’ve still got to wipe your coffee table down.” 

“Do you?” 

“Yes, yes, of course. It’s got _crumbs,_ you see. Right there. And see that? Jon forgot to use a coaster. Tsk, tsk. Better take care of that before it’s too late.” 

“How _thorough._ I’m impressed.” 

“You should be!” 

“All you’re missing is the cute little maid uniform.” 

Tim snaps his fingers in an _aw shucks_ sort of way. “Knew I was forgetting something! Damn.” 

She breaks and laughs a little, and he grins at her. 

“You know, I somehow get the feeling that you’re stalling,” she says, sitting down on her couch as Tim gets some paper towels to clean off her table. 

“Oh?” he says innocently. 

“It was very gallant of you to take care of all of the cleaning, and let Jon and Martin go home early. _Too_ gallant. I sense ulterior motives.” 

“Wow. _Wow._ I help clean up, and this is what I get? Accusations? How dare you?” 

“Well, you didn’t bring the uniform, so you’re kind of asking for it, frankly.” 

“You’ve got me there, James,” he admits ruefully. “Alright. So what if I’ve got motives? What could they possibly be? Are they… _sinister?”_

He drops his voice at that last word, leaning in. It’s supposed to be joking, but she feels a little shiver of anticipation run up her spine at the sound of it. 

“Hm, I don’t know,” she says. “You’ve managed to arrange things so that you’re all alone in the flat of an innocent young woman. Some might call that _nefarious_ behaviour.” 

_“Innocent,”_ he says. “Interesting wording, there. I won’t argue, though. Why, are you worried?” 

There’s something to his tone that makes that last question almost sound serious. Like it could be a real question, if she treats it like it is one. Or she could play along, keep up the joke. Tim would follow her lead. She can see it now. He could be the incorrigible rake wickedly seducing her, she the innocent damsel who helplessly falls to his advances. It wouldn’t be a serious, negotiated scene, but instead just something playful to make them giggle in between kisses. 

They do this a lot. Playful flirting. It never actually goes anywhere. 

Except for the one time it did. She’d decided afterwards that she couldn’t let it happen again, not when it made Tim _look_ at her like that. But they’ve talked about it, now. Cleared things up. He _knows_ she won’t ever feel the same way as him. He’d told her that he’s going to work on his whole pining thing. 

So what would be the harm in fooling around now? He knows that it won’t lead to anything else, so it’s fine, right? 

She has no idea if that’s right or if she’s just making excuses for herself. She just knows that Tim is kneeling on the floor near her legs on the pretense of cleaning her table, and he looks very good on his knees. 

There’s a knock at the door, a sound so unexpected that it breaks the thick, heavy tension hanging taught and breathless in the air instantly. She’s wildly disappointed and incredibly relieved for the interruption at the same time. 

“I’ll get it,” she says, getting up from the couch, leaving Tim behind. She’s not fleeing. She just needs to be able to _breathe,_ and the air in the living room suddenly feels so close and intimate and _hot_ that she can barely get it into her lungs. Like that moment right after orgasm, when there’s just silence and sweaty satisfaction as you both come down and breathe right into each other's faces. 

Christ, she’s too horny right now. She needs to calm down. 

She opens the door. It’s Martin. 

“Back so soon?” she asks him, nonplussed. 

“I, um, I realized I must’ve left my phone here. Sorry.” His voice is small, his eyes downcast. He looks very tired. 

“Oh, get in here, then,” she says, opening the door wider for him. 

Martin walks in, and his steps are slow, sluggish. He really does look exhausted. Had he looked that tired when he left her flat? It can’t have been more than half an hour ago that she last saw him. 

“Hey, Marto,” Tim greets him. “I was just helping Sasha tidy up before I-- are you okay?” 

“What?” Martin asks, his gaze lifting up from the floor to blink dazedly at Tim. 

“I asked you if you’re okay,” he says, standing up. “You look, uh-- no offense, but _not_ great. Did something happen?” 

He doesn’t answer for a long moment, and Sasha notices something. His shoulders are very, very tense. Like he’s holding a lot of muscles rigidly still, locked tight with tension. He doesn’t look tired at all, once she notices that detail. 

“I’m fine,” he eventually says, but his voice breaks like thin ice in the middle of just that short little sentence. At that he sniffs once, hard. 

He’s on the verge of tears, she realizes with a distant, muted sort of horror. The buzzing, wanting anticipation that had been slowly warming her up only moments before turns cold all at once, leaving her only with the energy that came with it, but now it has a much more unpleasant tinge to it. Like she’s being mugged or something. God, he might as well just have pulled a knife on her. 

She freezes up where she stands, hoping Tim will keep Martin’s attention, that he’ll _deal_ with this and she won’t have to get involved. 

“You sound incredibly fine,” Tim says, and that somehow makes her release her breath and feel a bit less like a deer in headlights. How casual it is. 

“Shut up,” Martin immediately replies, which startles a little laugh out of her. His eyes turn towards her, and she tenses up again as she realizes that she’s reminded him of her existence. His eyes are bright with stubbornly unshed tears. 

For fuck’s sake, she’s being ridiculous. _Get a hold of yourself,_ she tells herself sternly. She’s not afraid of _Martin._ She is a bit afraid of saying the wrong thing and setting him off somehow, the way she’d accidentally make her friends cry back when she was a kid, not knowing what it was that she’d said or done that was so bad. But damn it, she’s an adult now, and tact is a skill that you can learn and get better at. 

Also, if she messes up too badly, Tim is here to help smooth it over, so. It’s admittedly that last part that she finds to be the most reassuring, but no one but her has to know that. 

“Did something happen?” she makes herself ask him. She might as well be straightforward. 

Martin looks pretty upset, and he hadn’t been that way earlier as far as she could tell, so something probably _had_ happened. But then again, maybe not. She knows that people get upset sometimes for no good reason at all, or just because they remembered something that happened to them in the past too vividly. It happens to her too, sometimes. She’s just as human as everyone else. 

“It’s stupid,” he says, like that’s supposed to make her drop the subject. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” she doggedly goes on. That’s something you’re supposed to say when your friend is upset, she’s pretty sure. An obvious one, a gimme. Like _I’m here for you_ or _it’s going to be okay._

She really does want for him to say yes, though. Emotional conversations are _uncomfortable,_ but her curiosity is beginning to raise its head in the back of her mind. 

“You don’t have to,” he says, raising his hands, as if she’s made some sort of reluctant offer. 

“Oh, I know,” she assures him. A thought occurs to her, and her brow furrows with concern. “Where’s Jon? Is he okay? He was with you.” 

Martin flinches at that. _That’s_ not a good reaction. Alright, now she definitely has to know what’s going on. 

“He--” he says, and stalls out. 

“Is still alive, right?” Tim cuts in. “I’m assuming?” 

“Yeah. Yes, of course he’s alive! I just-- I… had an argument with him. I think.” 

“Ah,” Tim says, as if that explains everything. It doesn’t. 

“You _think_ you had an argument with him?” she asks. “How does that work?” 

“W-- well, it’s not like I _wanted_ to have an argument with him! I didn’t even realize it was happening until I was in the middle of it!” 

“Is that what you’re so upset about?” she asks. “Honestly, Martin, getting into arguments with Jon happens pretty regularly actually, even when you’re on good terms with him.” 

The arguments he has with people he _doesn’t_ get along with are a whole lot sharper and louder than the ones he tends to have with Sasha and Tim, though. The ones he has with his friends are downright fun, once you get into the spirit of it, and there were never any lingering, bitter feelings afterwards. Maybe Martin just needs some help with that concept. Getting along with Jon is still a fairly new experience for him, she knows. He’d probably just mistaken a friendly argument for one of the angrier, meaner ones he’d used to have with Jon back in the day, and overreacted and panicked. 

“It’s not like that,” he mutters. Before she can respond to that, Tim beats her to the punch. 

“What was the argument about, exactly?” 

For a long moment, Martin doesn’t respond. Just as it’s gotten to a point where Sasha’s exchanging Looks with Tim, trying to figure out who should break the silence first, he speaks up. 

“When we told you that we’re dating,” he says, “you guys didn’t act like there was anything weird or wrong about that at all.” 

“... Were we supposed to?” she asks. 

“Don’t _do_ that,” he says, surprisingly fierce. “Don’t act like--!” 

He cuts himself off abruptly, and just breathes for a moment, clearly trying to calm himself down. She blinks, taken off guard at the strength of his response. She’s not used to that sort of vitriol from _Martin._

\--Well. There was that time she’d laid down the answer of ‘if you have sex with Jon, he’ll go back to normal’ at his feet and he’d acted like she’d just politely asked him if he wanted to go and burn down the house of an innocent family. He’d been shocked, outraged, horrified. Righteously indignant. 

The two dots connect in her mind, and she frowns. 

“You and Jon dating isn’t _anything_ like you having sex with him while he was under the curse,” she points out. 

“I _know_ that,” he says, his voice high strung. 

“Then why are you acting like it is?” 

Martin tenses up again, as if he’s about to snap something at her, but then Tim quickly interrupts. 

“Hey,” he says. “How about the two of you sit down, alright? Just breathe for a second.” 

She looks over at Tim, and-- he doesn’t look happy, or calm, or comfortable. Right. He hates it when the people he likes argue with each other. 

Was that what she’d been doing? Arguing with Martin? She belatedly realizes that her hands are balled up into tight fists at her sides. Martin had raised his voice, almost shouting at her. 

Oops. 

“Fine,” she says, and marches over to the couch and sits down, crossing her arms. Relieved, Tim sits next to her, pointedly making space for Martin to join them. After a moment, he does. 

“Alright,” Tim says decisively. “I think we might be sort of talking past each other. So, let’s just quickly clear things up, make sure that there aren’t any more crossed wires. Right, guys?” 

“Yes,” she says. She’d very much appreciate a clear outline of what this conversation is supposed to be. 

“Okay,” Martin says, subdued. Having been made to sit and just breathe for a moment, it seems like some of his fire is leaving him. He’s still tense, but he doesn’t look like he’s going to snap like wire pulled too tight at any moment. 

“Grand,” says Tim. “Okay, so. The problem is that me and Sash didn’t think it was weird that you and Jon are dating now, is that right?” 

“Right,” Martin says. 

“Why is that a problem?” 

Martin turns and frowns at him. Tim quickly puts his hands up in surrender. 

“I’m being genuine!” he says. “I just want for us all to be super clear on what’s going on here.” 

“You can’t think of why it’d be a problem?” Martin asks, incredulous. 

“Is it a problem because… you didn’t think you were being that obvious?” Sasha asks doubtfully. That doesn’t feel right at all. They all _objectively_ know that Martin has a thing for Jon. They sort of _had_ to speak about it plainly, considering the circumstances. 

“What? No,” Martin says. “It’s-- _I_ was obvious about him, clearly. You guys never even had to ask me if I liked him, during the whole curse thing. You just stopped politely acting like you hadn’t noticed.” 

“Alright, so why is it a problem?” she presses. Martin’s acting like it should be obvious, like she should already know the answer. But she doesn’t, and that irks her. 

_“Jon_ wasn’t obvious about it,” Martin snaps off. “I was obvious about having a thing for him, but that doesn’t mean that us dating should be such a-- such a foregone conclusion, apparently! I was supposed to just pine away and then maybe get over him eventually, if I got lucky.” 

“You sound… disappointed?” Tim asks, eyebrows raised. “That the guy you had an impossible, unrequited crush on likes you back?” 

“I’m not _disappointed._ Just… you guys seriously don’t think that there’s anything weird or suspicious about the fact that Jon suddenly likes me back? Isn’t it too convenient? Too wonderful for _me?”_

“Oh!” she says with triumphant realization, pointing at Martin, the puzzle pieces slotting together. “You think Jon liking you is a rose thing!” 

Martin throws his hands up in the air in sheer exasperation. _“Yes,_ I think it’s a rose thing! Why am I the only one who thinks that!? It’s a really reasonable worry!” 

“Oh, _woof,”_ Tim says, sitting back on the couch. 

Sasha frowns as the euphoria of putting the pieces together bumps up against someone she knows believing something that’s Wrong. 

“That’s not logical, though,” she says. 

“Yes it _is,”_ Martin insists testily. “The curse made Jon want me the way I wanted for him to want me. Now that it knows I’m never going to have sex with Jon no matter how hard it makes him try, it could be going for another angle, giving me something else I want.” 

She reaches up and flicks him on the forehead with her fingers. He yelps, flinching away as if she’s slapped him with all her might. He gives her a shocked, betrayed look. 

“Don’t act like that irrational horseshit makes any sense at all,” she tells him. _“Every_ single instance of the curse that we’ve encountered was focused on a sexual angle. Not lovey dovey romances.” 

“But--” 

“Have you been having sex?” 

“Well, no--” 

“Are you planning on having sex?” 

“No, but--” 

“Well, there you go! The curse is over and has nothing to do with your relationship at all.” Martin still looks miserable, unconvinced, ready to dig his heels in and argue, so she goes on. She’s very good at winning arguments. She’s had a lot of practice. “Besides, what’s the endpoint of this supposed to be, then? The curse would _normally_ end after the victim and the target have sex, the most violating, horrifying moment possible. What’s the natural conclusion of your relationship? The climax? The two of you breaking up? Your wedding? Dying peacefully in each other's arms of old age? Is he just going to randomly snap out of it some day and start screaming because he’s spent the last two years going through the terrible ordeal of making you pancakes for breakfast and calling you sweetheart? Explain your thought process to me.” 

“I-- that--” Martin stammers for a moment, and Sasha takes a second to feel vindicated at winning the argument. The argument that Martin is not a terrible person who is dating Jon against his will. Which feels sort of weird, when she thinks about it. Shouldn’t they be on opposite sides of this debate? 

“See? The idea that Jon is only with you because of the curse--which has _already been broken--_ is irrational. Illogical. Nothing to worry about!” 

“That’s not the _point!”_ he suddenly bursts out. She blinks. 

“It’s not?” 

“The _point_ is that you didn’t ask us if we were having sex earlier! You didn’t ask any questions about that at all, you didn’t _check_ that everything was okay! Why didn’t you?” 

“Well,” she says blankly, caught off guard and just saying the first thing that comes to mind, “you were so determined to do things the right way while Jon was cursed. Why would that suddenly change now?” 

That seems to bring him up short for a moment. Like he hadn’t expected for her to think of it in that way at all. But he goes on. 

“Why is everyone else acting like it’s so obvious that I’d never take advantage? Why is everyone giving me the benefit of a doubt?” He looks tired as he asks that last question, almost plaintive. Confused. 

“Martin,” Tim says. “We trust you, man. We _know_ you aren’t going to do something bad. That’s why we aren’t interrogating you, alright? If you say that you’re dating Jon, we’re gonna assume that you and Jon are already doing your best to handle the whole consent thing.” 

“You can’t _know_ that,” Martin insists, almost desperately. “I’ve wanted to. When-- when Jon was cursed, I wanted to. A lot. I could-- I might decide to--” 

“Oh, this again,” Sasha says. “Martin, it doesn’t matter how much you may want to, or how much you think about it. It’s what you _do_ that matters. And me and Tim and Jon, we’ve all seen you not take advantage of Jon over and over again, no matter how much of an excuse you had to do it. We trust you to always try and do the right thing, no matter what. Thoughtcrimes aren’t a thing, alright?” 

Martin doesn’t have anything to say in response to that. He just takes a moment to sniffle and reach up to quickly wipe at his eyes. 

“You don’t even think that Jon’s dating you because of the curse, do you?” Tim asks him. “It just bothers you that we aren’t even worried about it.” 

“That-- that’s not true,” he says. “I am-- okay I know that Jon isn’t cursed any longer. I’m-- I’m ninety nine percent sure, okay? But I can’t help but worry about it sometimes. It just feels like it’d be the sort of thing that would happen. That he’d realize some day that he doesn’t want to be with me, it was all a big mistake, he was tricked into it, he regrets it.” 

Sasha frowns. “Is this even a curse thing?” 

Martin’s shoulders hunch. 

“It’s not like your relationship sprung up out of nowhere, you know,” Tim says. “Jon didn’t just suddenly start liking you out of the blue one day.” 

“Oh, really?” Martin asks, trying to sound sarcastic and not quite landing the mark thanks to the thick, barely repressed emotion clinging to his voice. “I must have missed him slowly falling in love with me, then.” 

“Well yes, you did,” Sasha says. 

“What?” Martin asks, looking up from his lap at her face. 

“You took sick leave for two weeks after you broke Jon’s curse,” she points out. “You weren’t around to see him moping and pining away after you like we were.” 

“It was absolutely tragic,” Tim says, nodding his head in agreement. 

Martin’s eyes are wide now, looking at them with a fragile sort of disbelief, like he _wants_ to believe them. “That’s-- no. He was upset after the curse broke because _the curse was really upsetting.”_

“Sure, that too,” Tim says. “But he’d poke his head out of his office every five minutes for the first hour of every work day like he was hoping that you’d suddenly come into the office one day without warning.” 

“He was hoping that I wouldn’t come,” Martin says, like he can’t stop himself from arguing against them. 

“He looked _very_ crestfallen whenever he saw that your desk was still empty,” Sasha contradicts him. “Oh, also, he kept grumbling about not having any tea? So I made him some, and he thanked me, but he didn’t really drink any of it. Apparently I hadn’t done it right.” 

“He asked me to go visit you and check how you were doing, like, at least ten times,” Tim says. “And then he’d change his mind and tell me not to do it, and then he’d flop back and forth on that a few more times.” 

“Oh,” Martin says in a very small voice, eyes still wide. He looks like he’s having some trouble processing all of this. That Jon had taken the time to worry and think about him, even so soon after the curse was broken, even when Martin wasn’t around in the office to remind him of his existence. 

“And it’s not like the two of you immediately jumped into a relationship once you came back,” Sasha can’t help but point out. “You guys talked a _lot,_ once you stopped skirting around each other like nervous hens.” 

“I think we’ve proven our point,” Tim says to her. Then, to Martin. “So, this is what you guys argued about?” 

“I…” Martin says, blinking, coming back to the conversation. “It-- it wasn’t an argument, exactly. It was more like I put my foot in it and said something that really hurt his feelings, and then he left.” 

“What was the hurtful thing?” Sasha asks. 

“That the reason I wanted to tell you guys about our relationship was so I could get your second opinion on if it was okay for us to date. I think.” 

“Huh,” Tim says. “... How were you hoping that the conversation was going to go, actually? Originally. What was the ideal spin?” 

“I-- I don’t know, I guess… you guys would ask me some questions, make sure that I wasn’t taking advantage. And then I could just… relax. Maybe I could be a hundred percent sure that us dating isn’t because of the curse, instead of ninety nine percent sure.” 

“So you were hoping that we’d say that it was okay for you to date Jon, instead of not,” Tim says, and he sounds audibly relieved. 

“I-- yes, of course! I wasn’t hoping that you’d say I was _wrong.”_

“That’s good. You… should probably tell Jon that that was the answer that you were hoping for. You know, instead of the other one.” 

Martin blanches. “You don’t think he thinks I wanted-- what, an excuse to dump him?” 

Tim shrugs. “Better safe than sorry, right?” 

“Oh, god,” he groans, slumping back against the couch, eyes closed. After a moment, he frowns and opens his eyes, sits up, and reaches behind his back with a hand. After a moment, he holds up his phone. It must have slipped out of his pocket and gotten wedged between the pillows during the first visit. 

“Well, at least that’s taken care of,” Sasha says. 

“I hurt Jon’s feelings, but at least I found my phone,” Martin says flatly. “Great.” 

“Hey,” Tim says, and a shiteating grin steals over his face. “It’s not all bad, Martin. You know what this is? Your first argument as a _couple.”_

“Aww,” Sasha says. “It’s much cuter when you phrase it like that.” 

“Exactly,” Tim says. “Look at the silver linings. This could be an anniversary that you celebrate in the future.” 

“You know what?” Martin says. “I think we _won’t_ do that, actually.” 

Something about the way he says it makes Sasha laugh, which makes Tim snicker, and then even Martin cracks a tired smile, so. It can’t be all bad. It’s fine, he and Jon will figure it out. They figured out getting together in the first place on their own, after all. 

And in the meanwhile, she can feel a proud, satisfied glow over having successfully traversed the absolute _minefield_ that is having an emotional conversation with an upset friend and giving him comfort and advice. 

Tim did admittedly help. Just a bit. 

Okay, a lot. 

Jon goes home on his own seething, furious. (Martin doesn’t try to stop him, to follow him.) When he gets to his flat, he feels too angry to eat, too unfocused to read, to work. (Martin doesn’t come.) So he just goes to bed instead. (Martin doesn’t call.) 

He lies there for a good two hours with his eyes squeezed shut like he’s going to fall asleep any moment, even though every single muscle in his body is tense, his hands curled into tight fists, a scowl on his face. He can’t relax. He can’t let his thoughts drift until they come to a stop. He feels _prickly,_ something hot and maddening shifting underneath his skin, like sand. 

His phone dings with a received text message, and he immediately shoots up from his bed and grabs for it. 

It’s from Martin. 

_I’m sorry. Can we talk about it tomorrow?_

He rereads the text three times, and tries to get his racing, chaotic thoughts in order. Tries to figure out how he feels about this. 

He wanted for Martin to apologize. Didn’t he? He was angry. _Is_ angry. Of course he wanted an apology. And now he has one. That’s good. 

Some part of him had expected for Martin to try and explain himself, to dig in, to argue. But instead he’s just saying that he’s sorry. Is he sorry? He can’t tell. It’s a _text._

 _Can we talk about it tomorrow?_ What does that mean? That he wants to talk about it tomorrow, is the obvious answer. But reading that sentence sends a sharp, anxious twinge through his stomach, and he can’t help but remember Georgie saying _we need to talk_ one morning like an awful cliche, but there had been dark bags underneath her eyes and she’d looked very sad as she said it. Sad but determined. 

\--No, that’s ridiculous. He’s being ridiculous. Of course. They’ve had _one_ argu-- disagreement. That shouldn’t spell the end of their relationship. 

Except it still feels so new, and so fragile, like anything at all could break it. He grits his teeth, the beginnings of a headache blossoming in his skull. No, that’s not what’s going to happen. Not after they just barely managed to get together, not so soon, not so easily. Martin apologized in the message. It’s the one who’s doing the apologizing that gets dumped, right? Except that Jon isn’t planning on dumping Martin any time soon, so. It’s fine. It’s going to be _fine._

His phone softly dings again, the screen lighting up with another received text message. He blinks as he realizes that he’s sat here long enough for the screen to go dark without him noticing it. 

The new message just says one word. _Please?_

He sees the difference in timestamps between the two messages and realizes that he’s left Martin waiting for a response to a question that is, in all likelihood, absolutely nerve wracking. Hurriedly, he types a response. 

_Yes._

He sleeps poorly after that, but he does at least sleep. 

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing Martin blurts out when Jon opens the door. Not _hello_ or _good morning._ It bursts out of him like he’s been waiting to say it since he last saw him. 

“You already said that,” Jon says without thinking, blinking up at him. He had, in the text message. 

But this feels so much more reassuring than the text. He can see it in the way Martin looks at him, the miserable twist to his mouth, how he’s subtly leaning in towards him like he can will for Jon to understand just how sorry he is. It’s not fake. He’s certain of it. 

“Well,” Martin says, floundering a bit. That probably hadn’t been one of the responses that he’d expected. “I really mean it.” 

“I believe you,” he says, and he opens the door wider. “Let’s talk inside.” 

Martin ducks in, like he’d maybe worried that Jon would make him have this conversation out in the corridor so that he could slam the door in his face as soon as it was done. He frowns. He’s felt prickly and angry and restless ever since yesterday, but he doesn’t like this either. He doesn’t like Martin walking on eggshells around him, apologizing, being on the backfoot. There’s already been too much of that. He just… wants to get along. For things to be okay. 

That’s what’s going to happen, he decides. Things are going to be okay, and they’ll get along again. They just have to talk for a while, fix the problem. They can fix it. They _have_ to be able to fix it, because even though he’s been with Martin for-- it’s been one week now. Christ, even though they’ve only been together for _one week,_ the idea of losing him is-- no. It’s not fair. It feels somehow worse than losing him after spending years together. He should at least gain some good memories with him first, instead of losing him when all they mostly have is potential ahead of them. 

They sit down on the couch. This time, they’re not stretched out comfortably, enjoying a companionable silence, Jon considering how to best casually reach out and touch him. They’re sitting rather stiffly, a foot of space between them, the silence thick and heavy in the air, uncomfortable. 

“I’m sorry,” Martin says again, a bit feebly, like the heavy weight of the silence is squashing him down, making it hard to speak. 

This is the part where Jon is supposed to say _I forgive you,_ because he wants for them to get along again, to not argue. This is the first proper argument they’ve had since… well, since. And he already knows that he _hates_ it. He hates arguing with Martin, being angry at him. 

That’s the issue though. He’s still angry. He can feel it, like a hot itch underneath his skin where he can’t scratch it. 

“What are you sorry about?” he says instead. “Specifically.” 

Why had he asked that? 

“I-- I wanted to tell Tim and Sasha about us so they’d tell us whether or not they thought that was okay. But-- Jon, I wanted for them to tell us that it _was_ okay. That’s what I was hoping for. I wasn’t-- I wasn’t trying to sabotage our relationship or, or anything like that, I swear--” 

“That’s not the problem,” he says. After a beat, he adds, “But that is good to know, thank you.” 

If they both want for this relationship to continue, to succeed, then that’s what matters, right? It’s going to be okay. 

“Oh,” Martin says. He blinks wide eyes at him, so perfectly taken off guard for a moment that Jon is suddenly hit by the completely inappropriate urge to kiss him right here and now, argument or no. He resists it. He’s waiting for when Martin feels ready for it. No more touching and kissing him when he isn’t expecting it, when it’s just going to make him flinch away. “Then what is the problem?” 

Jon opens his mouth. He closes it. 

“Can… Can you tell me?” Martin asks after a long moment, a thread of anxiety creeping into his voice. “Please? I know it’s something that I should probably already know on my own without you pointing it out for me, I’m sorry, but I’d _really_ appreciate the help.” 

“It’s…” he says, his voice trailing off into a helpless silence. 

“Jon,” Martin says. “You _do_ know what the problem is, don’t you…?” 

“Of course I do,” he says, his voice going sharp with defensiveness, drawing himself up where he sits. Martin doesn’t react with any sort of chagrin to this response, or react much at all, really. He just narrows his eyes at him with suspicion, and Jon resists the urge to fidget uncomfortably underneath his attention. 

“Okay,” Martin says slowly. “What is it then? Why are you upset?” 

“It’s-- it’s because you,” he stammers, feeling increasingly awkward with each pointed question. He knows why he’s mad. Of course he knows why he’s mad. He’d barely been able to fall asleep, he’s been fuming about it for _hours_ now. It’s just… hard to articulate. To put into words. He gestures helplessly with his arms, his hands, the movement broad and sharp and sudden, and makes an inarticulate sound of pure frustration, like maybe this will help illustrate what he’s feeling, what he can’t quite describe. 

“Okay, okay,” Martin says, reaching out one pacifying hand. He looks less uncomfortable now, less like he’s casting himself on Jon’s mercy and forgiveness. Jon would take a moment to appreciate it if he weren’t so frustrated with his inability to explain what’s wrong. “It’s okay, we can figure this out.” 

“I’m not making it up,” Jon says desperately. “I’m _not._ I just can’t-- it’s hard to, to say properly.” 

Martin’s features soften. “I know you aren’t just making it up, Jon. I know. Just take a moment and breathe, alright?” 

Resentful at his own self, he takes a moment to just breathe. Calm down. 

“What I did, what I said,” Martin says. “That hurt your feelings. I’m, I’m really sorry about that. I didn’t mean to do that. But we should try and figure out why _exactly_ it was hurtful, so I won’t do it again.” 

It sounds very logical and sensible when he puts it like that, even though what he is in fact proposing is a lengthy conversation in which they both poke and prod at his feelings and try and find out if they make any sense at all. That sounds _awful._

“You can stop apologizing,” is what he says. “You’ve already done it several times by now.” 

Martin gives him a slightly wry smile. “No. I haven’t made a proper apology yet, have I? Because we don’t know what exactly it is I did wrong in the first place. So we’ll figure it out, I’ll apologize for it, and then… well, I won’t apologize for it again, if you don’t want that.” 

Jon can’t help but smile back a bit at that, despite his lingering anger, both now at himself and Martin. It sounds very manageable, when he lays it out like that with his calm, matter of fact voice. Like they’re just… fixing a broken sink or something. Something with a clear and obvious answer, something that can be repaired given the right tools and some time and effort. 

“We already know it, though,” he says. “It’s because you… wanted to tell Tim and Sasha about us just because you wanted their second opinion.” 

That was when that cold feeling had hit his chest, after all. The moment that Martin had admitted to that. 

“Right,” Martin says. “And why was that hurtful? Is it because I… misled you? Sort of-- sort of lied to you? Made you think that I was just excited and wanted to tell our friends about us, without ever mentioning what I really wanted? Are you mad because that was underhanded of me? Because I-- I didn’t mean to--” 

“No,” Jon dismisses the idea immediately. That doesn’t feel right at all. “That’s not why.” 

“Okay,” Martin says. Then a moment later, “I _was_ sort of excited to tell them, though, underneath all of the dread. Just so you know.” 

Jon’s mouth twitches up into a smile again. He’s fairly certain that they’re doing this all wrong. This isn’t what relationship arguments should be like, surely. Martin shouldn’t be trying to help him figure out why he’s mad in the first place, and Jon shouldn’t be getting struck with the random urge to kiss him. How had he done it with Georgie, now again? It’s hard to remember. 

Maybe it isn’t an argument at all. Just a problem that they’re fixing together. He likes that idea much more. 

“I was excited as well,” he says softly. “Even though I was… hesitant, at first.” 

“I was really relieved when you agreed to it,” Martin says. “When you said that you didn’t want to tell anyone yet I was afraid that, um-- never mind.” 

Jon frowns. “What were you afraid of?” 

Martin flushes, and raises his hands. “It’s nothing,” he insists. “Let’s just drop it.” 

Jon leans forward and pokes Martin in the shoulder a bit. “No, we’re talking about _my_ feelings, so we should talk about yours as well. It’s only fair. You should lead by example, Martin. Show me how it’s done.” 

Martin gives a surprised laugh at that. “Wow, you can be _such_ a smartass sometimes. Do you know that?” 

“Someone may have told me, once or twice.” 

Martin gives him a fond smile, but it turns sheepish and embarrassed as he speaks up, his eyes sliding uncomfortably away from Jon’s. “I just, I got worried that you were-- ashamed of me, or something. I know, I _know_ how insecure that sounds, god, it’s embarrassing just to say it out loud.” 

Jon rocks back slightly, searching for words and not finding them for a moment. 

“No,” is what he comes up with. Just a straightforward, blatant denial. “No, of course not I-- I’d never feel _ashamed_ of you Martin, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

Martin flaps a hand at him. “I know I’m being silly, you don’t have to coddle my ego.” 

This is a completely unacceptable state of affairs. That Martin ever even considered that at all-- 

“That’s not why I didn’t want to tell anyone,” he says. “It-- it’s not because I’m in the closet either. I don’t hide that I’m queer. It just doesn’t come up in conversation often, frankly, but I’m open about it. You could tell anyone that you like that I’m asexual or panromantic, I don’t care.” 

“That’s-- okay. I sort of had a feeling that wasn’t really it. That you were, um, holding something back. It’s why I… worried. That maybe it was something bad.” 

“It’s not bad,” he says firmly. He still doesn’t quite know how to say this in words that make sense, that don’t sound so dramatic and like it’s just all in his head, something that he’s imagined. But he needs to say it. Maybe Martin will understand anyways. “Or-- it’s not about _you,_ it’s not your fault. I just… I want to protect it. Us. Our relationship. It’s still so _new_ and-- and _fragile,_ and precious and very, very important to me. So it-- it felt safer, in a way, to keep it just between the two of us. Just… just for a bit longer.” 

Martin looks poleaxed at this messy outpouring of words. “Our relationship isn’t fragile,” is the first thing he says, a weak protest. 

_You won’t even kiss me,_ are the words that want to come out, but Jon manages to bite them back just in time. He’s not pushing Martin on that. He’s made a decision. It’s going to happen on Martin’s own time, when he wants to, with no pushing or whining or _begging_ from Jon. 

“That’s just how it feels,” he says instead, quietly. 

“Oh,” Martin says. He looks… upset. 

This is why he hadn’t wanted to tell him this. _Our relationship feels like it could break if I’m not very careful with it_ sounds so awful. Like he thinks they’re doomed. They’re _not_ doomed. He isn’t going to let that happen. 

He’s not supposed to kiss Martin yet, not until Martin takes that step first, but they’ve been holding hands. It’s allowed. He reaches out and takes Martin’s hand, twining their fingers together. He squeezes it once. After a moment, Martin squeezes back twice. Like a secret code with no meaning. 

“I’m sure that feeling will go away with time,” he says, even though he’s not sure. It would be more accurate to say that he’s _determined_ that it’ll go away with time. He will _make_ it go away. 

“Right,” Martin says. He takes a deep breath, visibly shaking that little spell off. He focuses his gaze back on Jon’s face. “So, you didn’t want to tell Tim and Sasha because you were afraid that that was going to be… too much stress for our relationship, more than it could take. Okay.” 

Jon frowns. That doesn’t feel right. 

“Well,” he says, and then doesn’t know how to continue. 

“Well?” Martin asks. 

“That’s not-- that’s why I didn’t want to tell _everyone,_ to be public and open about it. To let people who I don’t even know see it when we hold hands on the street. They’re strangers, I don’t know them, I can’t trust them.” He can’t even trust most of the people who work in the same building as him, honestly. He doesn’t really go out of his way to get to know people. He doesn’t know how they’d react, what they’d say or do. It’s not like he thinks Rosie or Hannah or Elias or whoever would suddenly be hellbent on sabotaging them, just-- he wants to keep it safe and private for now, with people that he _knows_ he can trust. And Tim and Sasha… he can trust them. They’ve more than proven that by now. 

“But you needed to be convinced to tell just Tim and Sasha,” Martin says slowly. “Why?” 

“I didn’t want…” he says, putting the words together almost as he’s saying them. Georgie had once teased him for being so terrible at talking about his feelings. She hadn’t been wrong. He’s not used to this. He and his grandmother hadn’t really talked, not about big, important things like feelings or some such. It was normally just about what he needed, or what he’d done wrong and shouldn’t do again. It was all very practical. 

“I didn’t want to have to make my case again,” he says, the words finally appearing as if out of a mist. It’s something that he’s felt in his chest all along, but he hadn’t ever actually _thought_ it. He’d just thought about telling Tim and Sasha, and felt this irrational dread crawl up his spine, even though they’re his friends, even though he trusts them. 

“What?” Martin asks. 

“Like-- like I did when I first told you that I wanted to be with you. For real. I had to explain myself, to argue against and convince you. And-- and it’s perfectly understandable that you needed that, and I didn’t really mind. All of it needed saying. But I didn’t want to have to do it again for _our_ relationship with someone else, like I’m on trial, my feelings under examination. Turning our relationship into something that has to be analyzed by everyone, _again._ It felt… bad. I didn’t want to.” 

_“Oh,”_ Martin says, like he’s two steps ahead of Jon and already drawing conclusions. 

“I didn’t even really realize it until it didn’t happen,” he goes on, still going down that path, but faster now that he’s started, gaining momentum. “I was so relieved when they didn’t ask any questions, when they didn’t make me explain myself, defend the decision. I was… very pleased with how the evening went.” 

“And then I said that I’d been expecting the same thing as you,” Martin says. “Except I’d been hoping for it instead of dreading it. I was disappointed and you-- weren’t. We didn’t want the same thing at all.” 

Jon swallows, and the motion is suddenly difficult, a struggle. His eyes sting. 

All of his anger is gone, evaporated. Had it even been real in the first place? All he feels is… _hurt._ Wounded. 

“I was surprised,” he says, and there’s a rasp underlying his words now, “that you still needed the reassurance to date me, apparently. That you needed someone else to tell you that it was okay. I thought that-- that it was enough, that I’d already convinced you. I thought that… I wish that you could just trust my word.” _That you could trust me._

He wishes that they hadn’t tried to have this conversation, to figure it out. He misses feeling angry. That had been better than this. He feels flayed, laid bare. It’s too much. 

He doesn’t even trust himself, sometimes. He still has to ask for reassurance sometimes, wonders if he’s thinking the right thoughts, doing the right things. What right does he have to expect for Martin to trust him, considering all of that? But it still hurts, despite that. He still wants to be trusted, to be taken at his word. It doesn’t make any sense. He just wants it. 

Martin squeezes his hand again, tight and warm, and he remembers all at once that they’re still holding hands at all. 

“Jon,” Martin says, raw. It makes Jon’s breath hitch a bit to hear it, and he curls his other hand into a tight fist, trying to retain control over his own breathing. He can’t make himself look at him, or else he’ll see how bright his eyes are right now. 

There’s a brush of warmth against the side of his jaw, pressure-- Martin’s laid his free hand on the side of Jon’s face, he realizes only as Martin uses that grip to gently turn Jon’s face towards his, meeting his eyes. It’s one of the more intimate touches that Martin has given him since they began dating, and it makes his breath catch, his attention captured with no hope of escape. Now he can’t look away. 

Martin looks very, very earnest as he speaks up. “The problem isn’t that I don’t trust you. I do trust you. I don’t trust _myself,_ okay? And that-- those are my own issues talking. It’s not your fault at all, and you don’t have to worry about it. I’ll work on that. I’m going to get better. Alright?” 

“Alright,” he repeats a bit blankly. Martin looks _very_ intense. His hand is still on the side of his face. 

Martin’s expression goes from steely determination to something softer, tender. “I want to be with you. I don’t think that’s ever going to change. It’s just that I’m not used to actually getting what I want.” He gives a little self deprecating laugh at that. “I don’t know what to do with myself now that I actually-- now that I really have you.” 

“You should kiss me,” Jon says instantly. 

Martin’s eyes widen, almost bugging out of his face. “Sorry?” he squeaks. 

Jon’s brain catches up with his mouth and-- _“Damn it,”_ he hisses. 

He’d been doing such a good job, until now! He’d been patient! 

“Jon?” Martin asks. 

“Forget that I said that,” he tells him. 

“Ummm,” he says. “I don’t think I can?” 

Jon groans, hiding his face in his free hand. “Well, then don’t pay it any mind. I’m sorry. That was-- I simply spoke without thinking.” 

“So you… don’t want to be kissed, then,” Martin says slowly, uncertainly. 

“Well, that’s not-- no, that’s not the point. It doesn’t matter if I want to be kissed or not.” 

“I actually think that that part matters a lot,” Martin says. “I had a whole meltdown about whether or not you actually wanted something earlier, remember? It was our very messy and complicated coming together story which we probably can’t tell anyone outside of the Archives, ever.” 

“Now who’s a smartass? It’s not like that at all. You’re not going to be kissing me against my will. _I_ won’t be kissing you against your will. Ever again. So it’s _fine,_ and let’s just drop it.” 

“... You know,” Martin says after a moment, “I haven’t really learned the trick of instinctively following your thought process yet. Sometimes you say things seemingly out of _nowhere,_ and I’m completely blindsided by it. Which, um, doesn’t mix super well with you being really bad about describing how you’re feeling, and why. I know you don’t like talking about that sort of stuff, and we just did a _lot_ of it, but-- could you please just explain to me what you’re thinking here? I don’t want for us to make assumptions and misunderstand each other again.” 

He… _supposes_ that that’s a fair request. Even though explaining that he’s waiting for Martin to kiss him and trying not to pressure him over it seems _completely_ counterintuitive. Isn’t that just a form of pressuring him? 

“I’m-- I’ve kissed you before. Several times. None of which really went _well,_ so-- I thought that I’d let you be the one to decide when it happens. For once.” 

“Oh,” Martin breathes. His thumb strokes Jon’s cheekbone once. His hand is so warm. It cradles the side of his face perfectly. They’re so close that he notices the moment that his eyes drop to Jon’s mouth. “That’s why you weren’t… okay.” 

A suspicion makes itself known in the back of Jon’s mind. 

“... Were you waiting for _me_ to bring it up first?” 

“I was-- I didn’t want to-- to take advantage, or something. To push you on stuff like that before you were comfortable. You’ve already had a lot of your lines crossed.”

“Martin,” he says, a great wave of sheer _exasperation_ welling up inside him. “I kissed you the very moment I realized that we both liked each other.” 

“Well, that’s-- that’s different!” 

“How?” he demands, and then quickly decides that no, he doesn’t actually care about this right now. “Kiss me, then. If you want to.” 

Martin’s breath catches. “Okay,” he says. 

And Martin leans down, and chooses to kiss Jon for the first time. 

Tim comes back to the booth squashed into the corner of the pub, concentrating on not dropping or spilling any of the drinks he’s carrying. He deposits a margarita (Martin), whiskey sour (Sasha), rum and coke (himself), and a Shirley Temple (Jon) at the table. 

That last one’s new. He’s been friends with Jon since Research, but even considering that, managing to convince Jon to come with them out for drinks after work is an _accomplishment._ The guy doesn’t drink, for one thing. And then there's a whole host of other reasons as well-- pubs tend to be crowded, noisy, full of strangers, and if he stays out too late then how will he have the energy to be a workaholic the next day? The last time Tim had managed to lure him out, someone had sent a drink over to Jon and given him a wink when he’d looked over. The look on Jon’s face had been pretty damned hilarious at the time, but that was before it became clear that the incident would make him allergic to the idea of another outing for… god, that must’ve been about a year ago by now. 

The benefits of Martin being his boyfriend now, he supposes. Martin being at the pub is now apparently legitimate and serious _bait._ Jon is sitting down between Martin and Sasha, comfortably trapped in the corner, leaning against Martin’s bulk slightly more than is necessary. Martin is pink cheeked and smiling, and he’ll occasionally dart a look down and to the side to peek at Jon sat content next to him. 

Tim thinks that it’s safe to say that they’ve managed to square their little fight away. He grins, pleased. 

“So,” he says once he’s seated back down next to Sasha, “is this one of those nights where talking about work is banned, or is it alright?” 

“You _ban_ talking about work?” Jon asks, immediately incredulous and a little bit horrified at the notion. 

“Only sometimes!” he defends himself. “If we only ever talk about our jobs we’ll eventually turn into zombies, you know.” 

“It’s nice to talk about other stuff sometimes,” Martin says very reasonably. 

“I’m really glad that you’re here now, Jon,” Sasha says, “because they always just outvote me whenever they want to do that. It’s not fair.” 

“The Archival department is a democracy,” Tim says sternly. 

“I should get two votes,” Sasha insists. 

“You have mine,” Jon promises her. 

“Oh no,” Martin groans. “This just means that we’ll be locked into ties all of the time now.” 

“We can settle matters in other ways,” Sasha proposes. 

“Like coin flips,” Tim suggests cheerily. 

_“Or,”_ Sasha cuts in, “contests of _skill._ Merit.” 

“Or coin flips.” 

“Afraid that I’ll beat you at anything that requires talent, Stoker?” 

“Luck’s a skill, James.” 

“I… did actually want to talk about something related to work,” Jon says. “Am I going to have to win a coinflip first?” 

“Oh, well, go on then,” Tim says with a wave of his hand. “We’re just joking around, we only do that when some of us are absolutely _sick_ of thinking about the supernatural for the day.” 

Or when Jon was being especially unbearable at the moment, a walking bundle of stress and snapping at people. They’d all needed a break during those times, a chance to decompress. That doesn’t really happen all that much any longer, though. It’s nice. 

“Oh. Well, good. It’s about Elias. We have a meeting coming up, and I’m afraid that he’ll ask me how the department has been spending it’s time. I… don’t really know how to fill up the weeks long hole of productivity that was spent mostly on researching the rose.” 

“Ah,” Tim says, rocking back a bit in his seat. _“Accountability._ I… had somehow forgotten about that.” 

There are some rather nice benefits to your direct superior being your friend, after all. The atmosphere down in the Archives has been a lot more relaxed lately, since everything. They still _do_ stuff, they still work, but… Jon doesn’t really mind any longer if he walks out of his office to find them all clustered around one of their desks, watching a video or just chatting for a bit. 

But Jon still has a boss as well. Oops. 

“I’m guessing that just telling him the truth is out of the question,” he checks. 

_“Completely,”_ Jon says. “Nevermind the fact that the truth is absolutely mortifying, we’ve also far passed the deadline for telling him the truth without it being clear that we’ve lied to him and gone out of our way to cover it up.” 

“It’s too late now,” Sasha agrees. “We’ve committed.” 

“I feel like we’re talking about covering up a murder,” Martin says. 

“Oh, I bet we could get away with that,” Tim says. “There’s _four_ of us, we can all be each other’s alibi. It’s perfect.” 

“Focus,” Jon says. “What can I tell him that’s believable?” 

The rest of the evening spills away from them from there, all of them pitching different ideas, ranging from the plausible (Martin), the overly detailed (Sasha), to the plain ridiculous (Tim). Jon comes up with some truly _terrible_ lies. It’s almost impressive how bad his are. After finally choosing one, they focus on coaching Jon to parrot it with a straight face without breaking his composure, and by the time they’re done with _that_ Tim’s stomach is literally _aching_ from laughter. 

“How are you so bad at this!” he wheezes. “You look so-- so shifty, oh my god--” 

“You’re flustering him!” Martin defends him, but he’s grinning widely with amusement as well. 

“Good!” Sasha says. “He has to be able to do it under pressure, the real thing is going to be way more intense. Again, Jon.” 

“We-- we had to start the filing system over from scratch because-- Sasha!” 

Sasha throws another peanut at him. “What? Focus on your script, ignore me!” 

Jon makes an indignant noise and wads up his napkin and throws it back at her. 

It is, in short, a really, really fun night. By the time they leave, it’s completely dark out. They hadn’t had that much to drink, he doesn’t even feel dizzy. Just pleasantly warm, despite the night chill. 

“See you Monday, you crazy kids!” Tim calls out as Jon and Martin have to split off from Tim and Sasha. He’s pretty sure that Martin’s planning on walking Jon all the way to his flat and then kissing him goodnight at the doorstep. It’s _adorable._ “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t!” 

“You’re barring very few activities from us, then,” Jon calls back. Martin says something to him that Tim can’t hear from this distance and Jon laughs, tangling their hands together. 

“I _knew_ they’d be cute together,” Tim says as they walk off. A smile rests comfortably on his face. All of his friends are happy, and he’s had an excellent night with them all. Right now, life is good. 

“They were already cute separate, so that wasn’t exactly a far leap,” Sasha says. 

“Oh, you can’t just let me have this?” 

“Fine, fine. You called it, Mr. Big Brain Man. Good job.” 

“That’s _Doctor_ Big Brain Man to you, madam.” 

“I gravely apologize, sir.” 

“I don’t know if I can forgive you, frankly. This is just one slight too many.” 

“Oh _no,”_ Sasha says, and they continue from there, a nonsensical conversation in which Sasha keeps trying to come up with ways to convince him to graciously accept her apology and he keeps snootily turning up his nose at her, huffing about his wounded pride. At some point the conversation slides naturally over to what subject is the best one to get a doctorate in for the sole purpose of making people call you doctor, the pros and cons of each of them. Then they argue about whether or not a doctor is sexy, exactly how sexy they are if that’s the case, in what way they’re sexy. Then it morphs into a conversation about what the sexiest profession actually is, then it’s a list of the top ten sexiest jobs that they are very, very particular about getting in exactly the right order as if it matters at _all._

“Plumbers do have that gruff blue collar charm to them,” Sasha muses. “Like they’re not afraid to get their hands dirty.” 

“Plus, they’re a classic staple in porn.” 

“I’d actually count that as a point against them. It’s a really cheesy trope-- oh, we’re home.” 

They are. ‘Home’ in this case is Tim’s flat. He knows that they ended up here without even talking about it simply because it was the closest one to the pub. Most of the time, they end up back at Sasha’s, since her flat is the closest to the Institute. The two of them splitting off and going back alone to their own flats had never even been considered, much less brought up as an actual option. 

They don’t _always_ sleep in the same flat. Just… pretty often. It always happens when they end up staying out late for drinks, admittedly, but that’s just practical, isn’t it? It’s not safe to go home alone when you’re drunk, or sort of drunk. What if one of them got mugged? Safety in numbers. 

Tim had sort of thought, in a resigned way, that it would be happening less after he’d shot his shot with Sasha and had been notified that that door of potential that he’d seen had never actually existed in the first place. At least for a while. 

The way it had been after they’d slept with each other for the first and last time. Not hanging out as much, not talking as much, only ever really properly spending time with each other in group settings. The sudden distance had been so clearly deliberate that Tim hadn’t been able to bring himself to try and cross it. It was a very clear message, after all. Tim didn’t want to be that guy, the one who pushed himself on the woman who was regretting a mistake and trying to send a subtle hint. 

But then it had turned out to not be for forever. It hadn’t been the new status quo. Sasha had let him back in after less than a month. He hadn’t lost her friendship. He’d been so relieved that he hadn’t even tried to broach the subject with her, in fear of spooking her off again. She’d just felt… awkward, or something. That was all. Nothing had been ruined. Things had gone back to normal like nothing had ever happened. 

Well. Except for the flirting. It stayed around but… it felt different afterwards. Less electric, less breathless, less like something might happen at any moment. It felt like flirting for flirting’s sake. 

That’s okay. Tim likes flirting. It’s _fun._ He especially likes flirting with Sasha. 

He had expected for that pattern to happen again. Some distance for a few weeks, and then a return to the status quo. He hadn’t been looking forward to it, honestly. It had been miserable the first time around, and he’s pretty sure that it would be just as awful the second, even if he’s more certain this time that there at least would be an end. But it hasn’t happened. 

It’s sort of been the opposite, actually. They’ve been spending _more_ time with each other, more nights, more text messages and grocery trips, as if some last stubborn barrier between them has finally been broken down. 

Tim falls a little bit in love with all of his friends, and Sasha doesn’t fall in love with anyone at all. They hadn’t known that about each other before, these things that are a part of them. Now they do. It’s… nice. He likes knowing things about Sasha James. He always has. 

Tim unlocks his door, and Sasha follows him inside. 

“Ah,” he says right after he’s gotten his shoes off. “Shit. There isn’t anything in my fridge. We should’ve gotten kebabs or fish and chips or something on the way home… Sash?” 

His train of thought derails when he realizes that she’s standing close to him. Very close. She’s tall for a woman, but he’s kind of tall for a guy, and he’s got a couple of inches on her. That difference isn’t particularly noticeable when she’s so close that he can count her eyelashes. 

“Tim,” she says, and then she kisses him. 

He drops everything he’s holding to put his hands on her hips. He kisses back. He kisses back _ardently._ She tastes like a sweet, fruity chapstick, and if he can only keep kissing her he’s sure that he’ll eventually be able to put his finger on what exactly the flavor is. Strawberry or peach or mango or something like that. He loves it. It’s his new favorite. 

“Wait,” Sasha says, seperating from the kiss just an inch, a breath away from his lips. “Stop.” 

He freezes up, stopping. 

“What?” he asks after a silent beat of the two of them just standing there, close enough to kiss if they wanted to. All they would have to do is lean a little bit forwards to close that last bit of distance. But he doesn’t because she’d said to stop, and she doesn’t and he doesn’t know why. 

“Fuck,” Sasha mutters, and takes a step back from him, her warmth leaving his arms. She pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s got the beginnings of a headache brewing behind her temples. “Damn it. I’m sorry, Tim.” 

_Fuck_ and _damn it_ is _not_ what he’d like to hear from anyone he’s just been kissing, much less Sasha. _Especially_ Sasha. But she’d said something else too, and it’s a dot that isn’t quite as easy to connect. 

“Sorry for what?” he asks. 

“For-- you know,” she says, and gestures between the two of them. “That was… stupid of me. Urg.” 

“Woah,” he says automatically, unable to help it. “Did you just admit that you’ve done something _stupid?_ Where am I? Is this a dream? An alternate reality? Who are you, and what have you done to the real Sasha James?” 

“Oh, shut it. You don’t need to rub it into my face. I just-- argh. You look good in those jeans.” 

Tim looks down and sees that, yes, he is indeed wearing his Good Jeans today. He hadn’t even really noticed when he’d put them on this morning. There hadn’t been any special thought put into the decision. He probably would’ve given it a bit more of his attention if he knew that it would somehow contribute to Sasha kissing him out of nowhere today. Obsessed over it, really. 

“Sorry?” he says uncertainly. _You look good in those jeans_ is technically a compliment, but she sounded so aggrieved when she said it. 

“You should be,” she says. “It’s unfair how hot you are, Tim.” 

“Oh, I see,” he says. He doesn’t actually see, he’s still grasping. His lips feel tingly. She _kissed_ him. It’s been so long since the last time she kissed him. He thought that it’d never happen again. “You just couldn’t resist me, is that it? Despite your better judgement.” 

“If you didn’t want that sort of attention, you shouldn’t dress like that,” she says very seriously. A beat later, a smile cracks across her face, her lips curling upwards despite how clearly she’s trying to retain her composure, to stay stony faced and serious, mock accusing. 

“Wow, I guess you’re right,” he replies, doing a better job with his poker face than her. He’s still reeling from this whole interaction very suddenly going in one very unexpected direction, and then just as suddenly swerving back in a U-turn. But he’s good at going along with a joke. Jokes are so much easier and more comfortable than conversations, aren’t they? They make everyone feel at ease. He never wants for Sasha to be uncomfortable around him. “I really was asking for it, wasn’t I? I’ll make sure not to dress so provocatively around you anymore. Terribly sorry to inflict these very good jeans on you.” 

“Yes,” she says, and now she’s supposed to say something else, to add to the joke, keep it going until they’ve comfortably moved past the whole thing without even once seriously acknowledging or talking about it. Because she doesn’t like talking about stuff like this, and he doesn’t like pushing her about stuff like this. He’s the one with the unrequited feelings, here. It’s up to him to not push them on her. 

She’s the one who kissed him, though. 

And she doesn’t add anything else. She just looks at him. A part of him wonders, distantly, if she’s about to kiss him out of nowhere again. He has no idea why she did it the first time, and now it feels like it could happen again at any moment, with no warning. 

He really does want to talk to her about this, actually. 

“... I am sorry,” Sasha says, and not in a joking sort of way. So maybe he’s not the only one who feels that way. 

He wants to say _don’t worry about it, it’s okay._ But he should probably at least understand what she’s even apologizing for in the first place. 

“For kissing me?” he asks her. “Because honestly, I really didn’t mind that, in case you didn’t notice.” 

“Yes, but-- I shouldn’t kiss you.” She says this like it makes perfect sense, like it doesn’t need any more explanation. 

_Maybe she’s sorry that she kissed you because she_ regrets _it,_ a voice in the back of his head says very reasonably. _Maybe she knows that it was a terrible mistake and wishes it hadn’t happened._

Oh, he really hopes it wasn’t that. He’s-- he’s _fine_ with being Sasha’s friend, with not kissing her or being with her like that, in that way. He’s perfectly happy, honestly. All he needs is movie nights where she whispers into his ear about how stupid and inconsistent the plot is and he snickers about how ridiculously bad the B plot romance is, and lunches where he listens to her explain the interesting little details in the latest statement that she’s been assigned and he vents about being stonewalled by cops while chasing down a lead, late nights where they both collapse on the couch with take out at the end of a long, tiring day. That’s all he needs. 

But it really would suck if Sasha hates and regrets that kiss, because it had really made him _stupidly_ happy for a few moments there. 

“It’s fine,” is what he ends up saying, because what else can he say? He never wants to make Sasha feel bad for not wanting to kiss him, or any other stuff like that. All he needs is her friendship. He wants for things to be fine between them. If he says it, if _she_ believes it, then it’ll become true. 

“You don’t have to--” she says, and then stops, cutting herself off with a frustrated noise. She takes a deep measured breath, her eyes closing, and then exhales slowly. With renewed resolve and determination, she opens her eyes and looks _very_ intently at him. “Tim,” she says. 

“Sasha,” he replies. 

“I feel like we’re both trying to be careful with each other’s feelings and do and say what the other person wants, but it’s impossible for either of us to tell what the other one actually wants because we’re both doing this at the same time so we’re just two mirrors trying to reflect each other and it’s _stupid._ Let’s just be honest and direct with each other for five minutes, no matter how rude or awkward it gets. Free pass. Come on. Don’t hold back. ” 

Tim takes a moment to absorb this. 

He smiles. 

“I’m always going to be in love with you,” he says. “At least just a bit. Sorry.” 

He’s always going to be in love with her, and stuff like that little spiel just now is a big part of it. How is he supposed to hear that and _not_ be gone for her? He’s been trying to stop for weeks now, and it’s only now dawning on him that it’s an exercise in futility. Maybe he’ll suddenly find himself not being head over heels in love with Sasha James some day, against all odds, but he won’t be able to force it, to make it happen. He just can’t. 

Sasha, rather than looking upset, seems to just seriously consider his words for a moment. 

“That’s fine,” she says eventually, decisively. 

“Is it?” he asks, his eyebrows rising. Him being hopelessly in unrequited love with her kind of sounds like the definition of ‘not fine.’ 

“I suppose I’ll allow it, so long as you don’t expect anything like that from me in return.” 

“You’ll allow it?” he asks her, helplessly amused by her phrasing, like she could turn his feelings off with a switch if she felt like it. 

“Do you expect it from me?” she asks, ignoring the question. “Romance.” 

“No. I know it isn’t gonna happen, don’t worry, Sash.” 

“Good, good. And do you resent that? Do you resent me?” 

“Never.” 

“You don’t think that’s going to change in the future?” 

“No.” 

“Well, tell me if it does, just in case. I’m serious, Tim. It doesn’t matter if you think it isn’t going to happen, or if it’s an upsetting thing to say. Tell me if you notice it beginning to happen. Promise me.” 

“I… alright. I promise.” He knows that it’s not going to happen, just like how he knows that he won’t be falling out of love with her any time soon. But she wants for him to promise, and so he does. It doesn’t matter if he’s so sure that it’ll never happen anyways, right? 

“And does it make you sad that I’m not going to feel the same way as you?” she asks. “Or wistful, or depressed, or whatever?” 

“I’m not secretly crying into my pillow every night over you.” 

“Okay. Then… there’s no problem, is there? You’re in love with me, I’m not in love with you, but you don’t expect anything from me that I’m not going to give you, you don’t resent me for it, you aren’t sad about it. And if any of that changes, you’ll tell me, and we’ll find a way to fix it. See? It’s okay.” 

She rattles all of the points off like it’s so logical, so simple and reasonable. She has a way of doing that. Taking every situation she finds herself in and making it neat and orderly in her head, until the course of action becomes oh so clear and obvious to her. 

Jon’s gone mad with some sort of absurd, awful sex curse? Write down all of his symptoms and ruthlessly research and question everyone who’s ever suffered from it to figure out how it functions. _Obviously._ God, Tim doesn’t know what he would’ve done if she hadn’t been there with him for that whole thing. She’d started treating it so clinically right off the bat, immediately, with no hesitation. She’d broken everything down into steps, into flowcharts and meticulous notes and cause and effect and ‘if this then that and if that then this.’ He and Martin had done plenty of the work but… he doesn’t think that he would’ve been able to do any of that work in the first place if she hadn’t been right there next to him through all of it, acting calm, acting like this wasn’t all terrible and ridiculous. At least, he wouldn’t have gotten to it as quickly or as effectively. There would have been a _lot_ more panicking. She’s good at making things feel manageable. 

And it had worked, hadn’t it? They _had_ broken the curse in the end. They’d figured out how it functioned. 

So… maybe this will work too. This ridiculously logical approach to a problem that’s messy and emotional. Maybe this whole thing is manageable, if he just works with her on it. 

“Cool,” he says. Then, “So, I just wanted to confirm with you real quick, are you upset about kissing me because you’re afraid I’m now going to start trying to make a relationship happen between us again?” 

“What? No. No, it’s just _mean,_ Tim. I’m never going to love you back, not like that. So I shouldn’t sleep with you just because I really want to. I have to consider your feelings too.” 

_I really want to._ Oh, those words are going to stick with him for a long time, he can already tell. 

“I want to sleep with you too,” he says, a little bit hoarsely. He’s not used to saying something so-- so _honest,_ with no joke or grin to soften the statement, to give them plausible deniability, to let her say no without actually having to say no. To blatantly admit to wanting something from her. With her. He doesn’t want to bother her with what he wants. 

But she’d said that they were going to be brutally, awkwardly, rudely honest for the next five minutes, so. He’ll cooperate with her strategy. 

Sasha’s breath catches, and she sways forward into his space like she wants to fall into him. And then she catches herself. 

“Yes, but we shouldn’t,” she says. “You’re not sad and you don’t resent or expect anything from me _now,_ but sleeping together could change that. Sex is romantic for you, isn’t it? Something people who are in love with each other do together. It’s not like that for me.” 

“Well,” he says, “it doesn’t have to be.” 

“I’m not some stranger you met in a club.” 

“I’ve slept with people I like before without it meaning much. Friends.” And as they’ve already established, he has a bad habit of falling in love with anyone close enough to him to be considered a friend. He’s helplessly in love with Sasha, but he knows that he’s gone soft for Jon and Martin too. Much more so since this whole rose thing. And they don’t feel the same way for him, because they’ve got each other and that’s all they want. And that’s fine. He’s happy for them. Genuinely, sincerely, he is. He would’ve led a pretty miserable life until now if he couldn’t be content with not having his feelings returned, after all, considering how easily he falls for people. 

“You want to be friends with benefits. You don’t think that that’s a bad idea? Asking for trouble.” 

“I think,” he says, “that you want to sleep with me, and I want to sleep with you. Not sleeping together, when both of us want it, just seems kind of silly. I’m already in love with you, and that’s not going to change any time soon, sex or no sex. If… if you…” 

Brutal, awkward, rude honesty. No trying to delicately step around each other's feelings, no trying to be considerate and tactful. Just the truth. 

“I think we should give it a go,” he says. “I _want_ to give it a go. Feel free to say no. I won’t bother you about it again if you don’t want to do this. I’m just-- I’m telling you what I want, without trying to guess what _you_ want.” 

“Oh,” she says. She takes a long moment to think about that, and he lets her, not pushing, not urging or coaxing. He’s noticed that her eyes tend to move when she’s thinking about a serious issue that requires all of her attention, like she’s reading invisible text in front of her face that only she can see. It’s one of a hundred things about her that he’s helplessly fond of. 

Eventually, she says, “Are you sure that I won’t break your heart?” 

“We both want to. If it doesn’t work, then we’ll just stop.” 

Sasha gives him a crooked grin like he’s a madman who’s just proposed a plan so crazy that it might just work. 

“That easy?” she asks softly. 

“Maybe it won’t be,” he says, still too honest, like she’d asked for. “But I know we’ll manage. Our friendship-- it’s the most important thing in the world to me. So if we mess it up, we’ll figure out a way to fix it, even if it’s hard. I’m not just going to give up. The only way this ends is if you want for it to end. That’s a Tim Stoker guarantee.” 

“I’m not going to want to end our friendship,” she says, with all of the certainty that he’d proclaimed that he’d never resent her for this, not ever. 

“Well, then,” he says. “Looks like we’re stuck with each other.” 

“Oh, shoot,” she says. And then, “Get over here. Those jeans should be _illegal,_ your ass looks so good in them.” 

He laughs, and he goes to her. They’re friends, and they’re going to have fun with each other tonight. Him being in love with her doesn’t change that.


	8. epilogue 2: epilogue harder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just one more moment.

Jon has a habit of falling into some fleeting niche obsession every few months, a new one each time. The process of making ice cream, harvesting honey from beehives, old fashioned lock picking and safe breaking, the way old clocks with interlocking cogs and gears function. He’ll come across some subject while reading or watching television, and for some reason it’ll just  _ snag _ on his brain and he’ll be unable to stop thinking about it whenever he has a spare moment, picking away at it and reading about and researching it for hours on end. It’s just-- learning a new thing from top to bottom is  _ fascinating. _ Interesting. 

Jon’s new obsession is Martin. He has a feeling that it’s here to stay. 

He would say that he’s never become interested in this way in a person before, but he has. It was with Georgie. A month into their relationship he had managed to say something that had made her snort laughter, an undignified sound of amusement. He’d looked at her in amazement, like she’d just done something incredible.  _ I have to know how to make her make that sound again, _ he’d thought. 

And from there, a bottomless interest in learning everything else about her had come. The need to know if she was ticklish (she was, at her sides and the bottom of her feet), what sort of food she liked best (spicy enough to bring tears to his eyes), if she was a fan of sports (mostly no, unless she was in a competitive mood). He had catalogued every little thing he’d learned about her in his head as precious facts to be treasured forever, and he’d waited for the interest to fade after a few months, for his obsession to move on like it always did. Eventually, he would learn everything there was to learn about her, and something else would come along to swallow up all of his spare attention. 

But it hadn’t faded. It hadn’t moved on. Because there was always more to learn, no matter how small or fleeting, and it was just as satisfying each time. He’d had other fleeting obsessions, but Georgie Barker always remained a consistent fixture in the landscape of his attention span. 

And then they’d broken up. His obsession with her hadn’t so much faded and moved on as it had been forcibly severed. He couldn’t catalogue all of the silly faces she’d make at their cat if he wasn’t around to see them. He couldn’t collect her scathing opinions on whatever movie they’d watched if they didn’t watch them together. It was like someone had snatched all of the textbooks on his favorite subject away from him all at once. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t done reading, that he still wanted to know more. He wasn’t allowed to know more. Reading time was over. 

He got over it, eventually. But he still has all of those carefully collected facts and memories of her in the back of his mind. 

He’s been through the process before, is what he’s getting at. This time, when it hits him all at once, he instantly recognizes it for what it is, and he knows that it’s not going anywhere any time soon. 

It happens one day when they’re back at Jon’s flat, having one of their ‘private dates.’ Now that he’s explained his rationale, Martin doesn’t seem to think it strange that Jon doesn’t ask Martin out to the movies or restaurants or museum trips or what have you. He just wants him in his flat, a space that he owns with four walls and a solid door and a decent lock. He can just enjoy the quiet comfort of being at home, out of the public eye where anyone might intrude, no chance of a stranger blundering into their space and somehow finding a way to wreck it all. 

It really is a stupid fear. Jon can wreck a relationship perfectly well on his own, with no outside help, clearly. He’ll get over it eventually. He’ll make himself get over it. He’ll feel solid and secure with this thing he has with Martin, and he can take him out… antiquing, or something. Whatever it is that Martin would like. 

Not yet, though. Just for a while longer, this doesn’t have to be anything more than it is right now: something warm and cozy and private, like curling up in front of a fireplace at the end of a long day. 

The moment: there are empty Thai food containers on Jon’s battered coffee table, and his stomach feels comfortably full and warm with the meal. He’s reading a new book, a dystopian science fiction focused on the exaggerated horrors of capitalism. He has the sneaking suspicion that he’s picked up the sequel instead of the first one in the series, but he doesn’t mind. It’s easy enough to pick up certain clues from context, and the book does a decent job of recapping key plot elements in quick paragraphs of summary. It’s understandable, and he’s enjoying himself. 

Martin’s on the couch with him, reading a fantasy novella, the fourth in the series. Martin had read a snippet out loud to him that he’d rather liked and wanted to share a while ago. The tone had seemed a bit too flowery for his tastes, but it was also a very distinct and unique tone. He might want to try and read it once he’s done with this one. Mostly, he’d just enjoyed that Martin had felt the urge to share a passage that had caught his fancy with Jon. The same way that he’d happily pointed out a bird to Jon when they’d walked together to Jon’s flat after work. It had just been a bird, a plain little thing that Jon was never going to see again. He wouldn’t have given it a second thought if he’d seen it on his own. But Martin had smiled like it was a pretty, cheerful sight, and he’d felt the need to share that pretty, cheerful thing with Jon. 

They were small, meaningless gestures, except for how they didn’t feel meaningless at all. They made Jon’s chest feel too small for the fondness that lived within it, pressing up against the bars of his ribcage. 

Jon had been reading his book. It had been a while since he’d heard anything from Martin, but he hadn’t noticed. They often lapsed into long silences when they were reading. That wasn’t all they did on their dates, of course, but it was a nice, comfortable way to unwind at the end of the day. A lot of the time, they just spoke. They’d get locked into some sort of entertaining argument, and then Jon would look at the clock and be shocked to realize that somehow three hours had passed without him really noticing it. Martin had been making noises about possibly getting some board games that they could play together lately, which was something Jon wasn’t sure was going to end wonderfully or terribly. 

Then a gentle, heavy weight had slowly settled onto his shoulder. It was unexpected, but he was so relaxed that he didn’t startle anyways. He’d just blinked, switching tracks from the words on the page to the real world by degrees. He’d turned his head to see what the weight was. Hair that wasn’t his had brushed up against his jaw with the movement. 

At some point while reading, Martin had fallen asleep. He’d let his hands holding the book drift to his lap, and he’d every so slowly toppled to the side, the side of his face coming to rest on Jon’s shoulder. He was warm, and heavy, his breaths coming out slow and deep. It couldn’t be a comfortable position for him to rest in, but he looked perfectly at peace. It wasn’t a comfortable position for Jon either, but he suddenly and intensely didn’t want to move a single inch. It was rather like having a cat fall asleep in your lap. It didn’t matter if your legs fell asleep or that you needed to use the restroom or you couldn’t reach your phone or that a fire had started in the kitchen. No matter what, you just couldn’t bear to bring yourself to move, for fear of jostling them and breaking them out of their blissful rest. Jon felt like the luckiest man in the world, to have the honor and privilege of Martin falling asleep on his shoulder. There was nothing he wanted to do less than wake him, to disturb the perfect moment. 

After some minutes, Martin mumbled something in his sleep, his words as mushy as half eaten biscuits. But he said it with quite a bit of conviction. 

“Is that so?” Jon couldn’t help but reply softly, as if he’d actually said something intelligible. 

Martin mumbled a reply, like they were having a spirited conversation despite the fact that he had a mouthful of food in the way. 

“Fascinating,” Jon went on. It was. Martin was quite literally saying nothing at all, and yet Jon was absolutely entranced. 

Martin gave a heartfelt, tragic sigh, like Jon was refusing to budge in some idiotic argument. 

“Terribly sorry,” he says, helplessly charmed. 

The ‘conversation’ doesn’t continue after that, Martin lapsing back into silence, just breathing evenly, in and out, in and out. Belatedly, Jon thinks to take Martin’s glasses off for him, sliding them very carefully off so as to not wake him. There’s a red indent left on the side of his nose where his glasses had digged in at an awkward angle. 

Jon sits there and watches that red indent from where Martin’s glasses pressed into his face, and he doesn’t know how he can stand it. Distantly, he knows that this is nothing particularly special. They’d read books on the same couch, Martin had accidentally fallen asleep and leaned on his shoulder. That’s all. But in the moment, he really, really can’t explain how his heart doesn’t just burst at the sight. It’s too much. He never thought that he’d have something like this again, after his relationship with Georgie ended. He’d had his chance, and he’d spoiled it. 

Apparently, he’d been wrong about that. Here he is. 

_ I have to listen to him talk in his sleep again, _ Jon found himself thinking. _ I have to hear all of the nonsensical sounds he earnestly makes. Every single one.  _

That was the moment. The one that sparked his new, favorite obsession: Martin Blackwood. After that, he started collecting facts and memories and snapshots like they were diamonds. First off, of course, is the way that Martin looks when he sleeps. Very peaceful and content, most of the time, but sometimes he’ll wrinkle his nose and frown or look terribly plaintive or annoyed, as if he’s dealing with something terribly inconvenient. Second, the way he looks when he wakes up: bleary eyed and disorientated, his hair pressed up flat on one side and all messy curls on the other, and yet still lighting up with an affectionate smile the second he saw Jon, even before he’d regained his bearings. Third, the way he looks when he’s writing a poem, the tip of his tongue sticking every so slightly out of his mouth as he concentrates, frowning down at the paper as if it’s failed him when he doesn’t like what he’s just written, viciously erasing the fresh words with sharp movements, smiling pleased and accomplished when it’s a line he’s rather shyly proud of. 

Jon mentally compiles his facts about Martin, and quite frankly, the only reason that he doesn’t have an actual binder is because he’s afraid that it might come across as a touch creepy. 

It’s fine. He knows he won’t forget them. This interest is here to stay. 

Martin is learning new things about Jon. These aren’t little stolen observations, things Jon unwittingly betrays about himself at the office. Like the fact that he has a bit of a sweet tooth, going by the way he gives a satisfied sigh whenever Martin puts some extra sugar in his tea. Or that his favorite color is green, because half of his sweaters are some variation of the color. Or that he likes to talk to himself when he’s alone, from Martin overhearing the soft murmur of his voice behind his office door before he knocks, even when he isn’t recording a statement. 

No, these are things that Jon shares with him on  _ purpose. _ Deliberate revelations, given only and  _ specifically _ to Martin. The thought makes a giddy, fiercely proud feeling rise in his chest, like helium balloons. Only Martin knows these things, because Jon gave them to him, because Jon trusts him, because he’s Jon’s favorite person in the world. 

Well. He assumes he’s Jon’s favorite person in the world, anyways. Jon’s _ his _ favorite. And the fact that Jon is sharing these things with him, that proves it, doesn’t it? It does. 

These are the things Jon shares with him: 

Where it’s safe to touch him. Sometimes when they’re on the couch Jon will casually toss a foot into Martin’s lap, and Martin’s allowed to touch it, to hold it, cradle it, his thumb rubbing slow, fond circles into it.  _ No  _ tickling allowed, though. His thigh, no. His hip, yes. His sides, sometimes.  _ Definitely _ not between his legs. Martin’s hand can smooth down Jon’s back fondly, but no lower. His shoulders, sure. His hair, Martin is  _ very  _ welcome to touch his hair. Sometimes Martin will bury his fingers there and gently scrape his nails across his scalp, and Jon will close his eyes in contented bliss, to the point that Martin almost expects for him to purr. The nape of his neck, in some circumstances. His throat, never. The side of his face, his jaw, cradled in Martin’s hand: yes. 

Where it’s safe to kiss him. Kissing Jon’s hand leaves Martin feeling flustered, like he thinks he’s some sort of seductive duke. But it always makes Jon give an embarrassed and yet genuinely pleased smile, just the way he smiles when Martin works up the courage to read him small snatches of his own poetry. So, he always does it, and he enjoys it. His wrist. The inside crook of his elbow. Not his throat, not anywhere below the belt. His temple. His cheek. The top of his head. His nose, even though Jon clearly seems to think that it’s somewhat undignified. His lips, so long as he does it the right way. Jon doesn’t like deep, slick kisses with tongues. He likes sweet, chaste presses of lips against lips. Martin finds that he likes them too, very much, and even more so the way they leave a smile lingering on Jon’s mouth afterwards. 

How to share a bed with him. Jon sleeps in old, soft worn clothes, several sizes too large for him. He informs Martin that he doesn’t mind if he prefers to sleep naked, other people's nudity isn’t a problem for him. Martin, who hadn’t even brought the subject up and actually prefers to sleep in a t-shirt in boxers, had said that that was good to know. Jon takes a long time to fall asleep, tossing and turning on his side of the bed. Martin, who’s far too nervous at  _ sharing a bed with Jon _ to possibly fall asleep any time soon, doesn’t really mind. But when Jon does fall asleep, he falls asleep hard. He goes heavy limbed and limp, snoring so gently and softly that the noise is comforting instead of grating. Like a white noise machine, or the patter of rain on top of a roof. Martin has shared a bed with other people only a couple of other times in his life, and both times his partner for the night had complained about him being noisy while he slept, mumbling and talking in his sleep, apparently. Jon doesn’t seem to even notice it. Heavy sleeper. Martin’s pleased at that discovery, feeling very taken with the romantic notion that they’re like puzzle pieces that slot perfectly into place. When they wake up, they’re tangled together, Martin having bundled Jon up into his arms against his chest like he thought that someone was going to try and steal him away in the night, Jon grasping and holding onto Martin like a beloved teddy bear. 

It’s more than Martin ever  _ really _ thought that he’d get to have, even as he hoped and dreamed about it. It’s perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect. 

They’re over at Martin’s shoebox of a flat one day, fumbling their way through making cupcakes in his tiny kitchen because Martin has always thought that the idea of baking something with his boyfriend sounded so sweet and _ quaint.  _ And now he  _ does _ have a boyfriend, a serious long term one, one who had agreed and immediately started trying to work his way through the logistics when Martin had brought it up as a suggestion for something they could do together that weekend, instead of scrunching up his nose in skepticism or throwing out another option that he clearly preferred. Martin wants to bake, and Jon is all for it. It’s that simple. 

As always, the reality isn’t quite as romantic and charming as he’d daydreamed it would be. It really is cramped in his humble little kitchen with the both of them squeezed into it, trying to maneuver around and next to each other. It’s even smaller than the kitchenette at work, honestly. No dishwasher. Somehow, though, it’s terribly fun anyways, even though they keep bumping their elbows into each other. 

Also, Jon is  _ shockingly _ good in a kitchen. Martin’s expectations had been low, considering the fact that Jon seems to think that daily, consistent meals are optional. But he really does seem to know what he’s doing. He doesn’t frown with confusion and go ‘what does _ that _ mean’ when Martin reads out the next step of the recipe from his phone which just casually uses about two or three baking terms that Martin just cannot parse at all. He’s used to frozen dinners, canned food, cheap takeout, anything that he can make in half an hour or less while sore and exhausted from work without spending so much money that it makes him wince when he reads the receipt. Jon seems to understand all of these little phrases though, and he helps translate them all for Martin so he doesn’t have to keep googling things. So, honestly, Jon has absolutely no excuse for his abysmal eating habits.  _ He _ clearly knows what he’s doing. 

And then Martin turns around to put away the milk as the cupcakes sit in the warm glow of his ancient oven, and walks  _ right  _ into Jon who’s putting away the flour. Martin, who had been wearing the only apron, is largely unaffected by this. Jon, not so much. After several minutes of profuse apologies, Jon manages to wave him off. 

“It’s  _ fine, _ Martin,” he says. “It’s just some flour. I think my jumper will eventually recover.” 

It really is spilled all over his front. He looks like he’s been witness to the Pillsbury Doughboy’s murder. 

Martin makes a distressed noise, not mollified. “At least-- you know what, go and-- and put that jumper in the dirty clothes hamper. It’s fine, I’ll take care of it. You can go and borrow something from my closet.” 

Jon stills for a moment. 

“Okay,” he finally says, and turns stiffly away to go and do just that. Martin blinks after him, wondering if he’s said something strange-- and then realizes that yes, he has. Jon’s going to wear something of  _ Martin’s. _ And Martin’s going to wash Jon’s clothes, his jumper casually intermingling with the rest of Martin’s laundry like it belongs there with all of his socks and pants. 

He doesn’t know which of those two things makes him flush hotter. 

Jon took the brunt of the flour spill, but there’s still some that got onto the floor and a nearby counter. Martin focuses on cleaning that up so that he won’t keep thinking _ he’s wearing something of mine _ and _ I’m going to wash his jumper _ on a useless loop. He finds himself grinning to himself anyways, stupidly delighted over something so small and mundane. 

He’d thought that maybe he’d stop having these moments where he giddily goes over and over every single little positive interaction he has with Jon after they started dating, but they’re coming on as often as ever. It’s just that they’re now about stuff like Jon casually worming his way up underneath Martin’s arm as he’s watching something on TV, or making an absolutely adorable half awake noise of protest when he tries to get out of bed before Jon’s done snuggling with him in the morning, instead of smaller stuff like Jon smiling at him or thanking for him for something. Maybe he just needs more time, until they’re all out of firsts and seconds and thirds and nothing is new or unfamiliar any longer. He doesn’t know. He’s never had a relationship as serious as this one before. Maybe he’ll start taking this all for granted some day, as hard as it is to imagine. 

For now though, he’s in his kitchen cleaning up spilled flour and feeling as light as a balloon when he thinks about how close the two of them are now. He finishes cleaning the flour, and gets started on all of the equipment they used while making the cupcakes, spatulas and whisks and bowls and measurement cups and more. It’s just as he’s finished up filling the sink with water to let everything soak for a while that he realizes that Jon still isn’t back yet, and that’s strange. How long exactly does it take to go and find a clean jumper from Martin’s closet? 

“Jon?” he calls out, and heads towards his bedroom. He doesn’t exactly have to take a lot of steps to get there,  _ cozy _ is the most generous way of describing his flat. “Do you need help finding--?” 

He opens his door and sees that Jon has indeed successfully managed to find Martin’s closet which is standing in plain view near his bed. The doors are open and Jon is looking raptly at something he’s holding with wide eyes. It’s-- 

“Shit!” he yelps, as he recognizes what he’s holding with a jolt. 

A while ago, back when Jon had been cursed, after that  _ disastrous _ attempt at trying to deal with having to be around him by just tying him up for a few hours, Martin had eventually untied Jon when his heart just couldn’t stand keeping him like that any longer. He’d left the rope pooled on his sheets while he’d rubbed at Jon’s fingers and asked if he could feel it, if it hurt in any way, could he move them for him please? Jon had been perfectly fine in the end, except for how he’d been tired and quiet, so much so that he hadn’t even been fawning over Martin at every opportunity. Which had actually disturbed and worried Martin, even though he should’ve wanted that. Jon left without saying much of anything at all. 

The whole thing had left him feeling upset, uneasy, boiling over with guilt and shame. Which wasn’t anything new then--it had been a  _ very _ stressful time-- but the whole incident somehow managed to turn the dial up by several more degrees. He hadn’t been trying to be mean to Jon, he’d just been trying to be  _ practical, _ to let Jon have his necessary time in Martin’s presence without Martin constantly having to dodge him or hold him down or argue with him. It had been at the tail end of that week, and he’d had no idea that it would be ending any time soon, or ever. He’d been staring the looming possibility of actually having to have sex with Jon (who didn’t _ really _ want that) in the face, and he’d been tired, stressed and run ragged and frayed to his last rope. He’d just wanted a-- a  _ break. _ He’d said sorry. It hadn’t been his idea. 

He still feels bad about it. Out of everything that happened during that time, that feels like the worst thing. The worst thing that  _ Martin _ did, at least. The lube thing, for example, had come out of goddamned nowhere. He’d done nothing to encourage it, nothing to make it happen, he’d had no idea it was happening until it had already happened. But the whole… tricking Jon into letting him tie him up and then leaving him alone just because he couldn’t stand to stay in that moment and let himself be shouted at-- that had been all him hadn’t it? Sure, Tim had been the one to come up with it, but Martin hadn’t  _ had _ to do it. He could’ve had another awful conversation with Jon that felt like talking to a brick wall that was completely detached from reality, and smack his hands away about a dozen times instead. 

He’d been very, very tired. 

Eventually, after Jon had left and Martin had stewed for a few hours over the whole thing, he’d had to go back into his bedroom. When he spotted the rope left carelessly on his bed he’d felt a bit like he’d seen a live snake instead. He’d quickly coiled it up and then shoved it into the very back of his closet, determined to give it back to Tim later. 

Now it's a few months later, and returning the rope had apparently escaped his mind entirely, including even its presence. Until now, when he sees the red coiled rope in Jon’s hands. 

He strides forwards and snatches it out of his hands, throwing it back into the closet which he slams shut. 

“I,” he says, “am  _ so sorry, _ I totally forgot that that was there, I swear.” 

Jon blinks rapidly a few times as he looks up, the way he sometimes does when Martin interrupts his reading. A little bit dazed, like his mind has gone very deep into a hole far away from his body, and it takes him a moment to reel it back into place in the present. 

“It’s fine,” he says belatedly. 

A tight knot that’s rapidly forming in Martin’s stomach says that it’s not, actually. 

“I should’ve gotten rid of it ages ago,” he goes on, his words quick and tight with apology and self recrimination. How could he have just  _ forgotten _ about it, for so long? He sent Jon to go and get some clothes from the same damned closet he put the damned rope in! He’s an awful boyfriend. 

“Martin, it’s really fine,” Jon repeats, softer and gentler now. Like Martin’s freaking out over nothing, and it’s Jon’s job to help calm him down. 

Jon should be the one who’s upset, and instead he’s the one who’s comforting Martin, he realizes with a sharp twist to the knot in his stomach. He does need to calm down. If-- if Jon really isn’t upset (and he doesn’t look particularly upset, now that Martin slows down enough to look for it, and Jon really isn’t good at hiding that sort of stuff, so) then Martin shouldn’t make a whole big thing out of it, should he? 

He takes a deep breath. 

“Sorry,” he says. Not for the rope so much as his reaction to the rope, this time. 

“I-- I was startled by it as well,” Jon admits with chagrin. “Was I gone for long?” 

“No,” Martin says. If Jon really wants to just smooth past this, act like it isn’t a big deal (and maybe it isn’t, maybe he just built it up in his head on his own, he does that sometimes) then he’ll go along with that. They’d been having fun before. Figuring out how to make cupcakes together in Martin’s tiny kitchen, arguing with each other in a way that felt safe and fond about what flavor they should be, what kind of frosting they should use. If the day isn’t spoiled then that’s… good. Very good. He takes another deep breath. The knot of guilt and anxiety loosens a bit. It’s not a big deal. Jon isn’t upset. That’s great. “Do you want help finding something to wear?” 

Jon agrees, and seeing him roll up the sleeves on one of Martin’s softer jumpers is distracting enough that his mood lifts back up. He wonders if he can get away with taking a picture of him like this. 

The cupcakes come out looking sort of wobbly and sloppy, the frosting uneven and the cupcakes all different sizes. It’s fine. What matters is how they taste, and they taste good. Soft and sweet and still a little bit warm, better than anything brought from a shop or a bakery. 

“Mmf,” Jon says, making a little noise of satisfaction as he eats, and something in Martin thrills at getting to hear it, at having helped make it happen. The cupcakes are _ perfect, _ actually. 

He makes sure to return the rope to Tim the very next day. 

Jon can’t stop thinking about it. The weight of the rope, the feel of it in his hand. He’d caught a glimpse of that familiar red color at the very back of the closet, and he’d picked it up half in disbelief, wanting to see if he’d been right, if it was really what he’d thought. He’d looked at it for a long time, waiting for the visceral, unpleasant feeling that had gone through him when he’d opened up his desk drawer and been surprised with the lube bottle still lying there, forgotten. It hadn’t come. He’d rubbed his thumb over the rope, feeling the texture of it, and wondered why that was. Why this is so different from that, apparently. 

Martin had come into the room before he’d had the time to figure it out, and now, a week later, he’s still trying to puzzle it out in his head in between tasks, during quiet, private moments. Why was it so different? It was the exact same scenario, wasn’t it? Being suddenly confronted with a reminder from that time in a place he hadn’t expected it, a tangible, physical symbol of one of the worst parts of it. What’s the difference? 

He doesn’t know. It drives him to frustration, not being able to answer that question about himself. Nowadays, he  _ hates _ it when he does or says or feels or thinks something and can’t figure out why, can’t see how it makes sense, how it logically originates from him. He worries away at the problem a little bit each day, like a scab that he can’t bring himself to leave alone. 

He doesn’t particularly enjoy doing it. It makes him keep going over those two memories, unable to help holding them up side by side, trying to contrast and compare, find any way that they might be different. They’re not exactly pleasant memories. 

The-- when he’d prepared himself for Martin, he hadn’t been particularly upset in any way, beyond feeling vaguely uncomfortable. But looking back at that incident now that he’s himself again, it’s just-- it reminds him of a term Georgie had taught him. Dysphoria. He has a hard time recognizing that past Jon as himself. That those had been his thoughts, his feelings, his actions. He remembers having them, doing them, and it’s-- disorienting, dizzying in the most nauseous sort of way. 

Did he feel that way when he thought about when Martin had tied him up? Well, it was immediately obviously different from that _ other _ memory in a few ways. He  _ had _ been upset while that had been happening. Mortifyingly distraught, even, although it hadn’t occurred to him back then to be embarrassed. Martin had tied him up, and that had felt good, exciting and strangely comforting at the same time. And then he’d realized that it had been a trick, that Martin wouldn’t fuck him like he was so clearly supposed to, like he  _ needed _ to, and that had immediately overwhelmed any satisfaction he may have felt. And then he’d left too, and that had been even worse. He came back eventually, and he held him and murmured apologies and comforting nonsense into his hair and he’d been so present and that had been good, but-- but it had held a painful bittersweet edge to it, hadn’t it? He hadn’t really been able to enjoy it. It had felt like a consolation prize, like second place when all he wanted in the world was first. It hadn’t been enough, not what either of them wanted or needed. Martin was supposed to _ fuck _ him. He hadn’t been able to understand why he wouldn’t, just that it made him miserable. 

Jon frowns, looking at but not seeing the words on the paperwork he should be doing instead of turning this problem over and over in his head. But he feels like he’s on the edge of something, like that frustrating moment when he can  _ feel _ the shape of a word he’s forgotten on the tip of his tongue, and just needs to close that last little bit of distance to capture it. 

The lube incident is upsetting because he doesn’t recognize himself in his own memories, his own thoughts made alien to him. The rope incident though… pretty much the only thing that feels out place now is that tireless, borderline insane need to get Martin to fuck him. Everything else feels… natural, almost. Like if Martin walked up to him and tied him up now, if he whispered sweet things to him and held him close then his thoughts and feelings would follow a similar path. Except without that painful bittersweet disappointment that spoiled it all, of course. 

“Oh,” he says to himself, as if he’s realized something. He doesn’t feel as if he has. He feels suddenly  _ much _ more confused than he’d been before. 

Isn’t bondage supposed to be a sexual thing? 

They’ve been kissing each other for a while now, but Jon is still fairly pleased with the development. Pecks to the cheek when one of them is leaving back for their own flat as a goodbye, a kiss stamped onto the forehead of whichever one of them is still asleep in the morning, like an unspoken little contest between them. They don’t actually keep points or anything of the like, Jon has long since lost count of the kisses traded between them. But it’s fun. It’s sweet and intimate, a small way to say _ I love you _ without actually saying the words. He likes it. 

Sometimes, though, they… linger in it. It isn’t just a  _ hello  _ or a  _ goodbye _ or a  _ I missed you  _ or  _ good morning. _ It feels more like a full conversation. Martin will look over at Jon and get a look in his eye, Jon will smile at him, and soon Martin will be crowding him back into the couch cushions or his pillow during a slow and lazy weekend morning and they’ll just kiss and kiss and kiss, an unproductive, aimless activity that they thoroughly enjoy for a very long time. It’s like cuddling. It doesn’t serve any purpose. He just _ enjoys  _ it. He enjoys it a lot. 

That’s happened, now. They’d been watching something on telly together, something that had turned out to be so boring that he can’t even quite remember what it was now, even as it’s still playing on the screen in front of them, not with Martin’s attention now laser focused on him like this. This is a much better activity to spend his time on. 

Jon digs his hand into Martin’s hair, a thick mass of curls, his other one twisting the collar of his shirt, holding on tight. Martin is brushing his lips against Jon’s so lightly over and over again that they’ve started to tingle from the sensation. He veers off course sometimes to press a quick, firmer kiss against his temple, his cheekbone, his jaw, his ear, like he can’t make up his mind about where he wants to focus on because he wants to focus on  _ all _ of it. 

Jon makes sure that his hand stays in Martin’s hair, in his collar. He’d like to just sink into the sensation, in the present moment, luxuriating in each passing second like it’s the only thing that exists, but-- sometimes, when they do this, when they kiss as an  _ activity _ instead of something that just casually happens here and there as they cross each other’s paths, he gets this irrational, dreadful conviction that as soon as he stops paying attention to his hands, they’ll slither off to do something terrible, touch places that he isn’t supposed to touch, groping uninvited and unwelcome. 

He pays attention to his hands. One in Martin’s hair, the other one in the collar of his shirt. They’re still there, still behaving. Good. 

Martin stops kissing him for a moment, separating by just a few inches. “Still good?” he asks. 

That’s something he asks sometimes, now. Or questions like it. Are you enjoying this? Do you like it? Jon’s managed to process that it isn’t actually a bad thing that Martin needs some extra reassurance sometimes. It isn’t that he doesn’t believe Jon, that he thinks he’s lying or mistaken, that he’s let himself be tricked into this whole relationship. It’s not about trusting or not trusting Jon. It’s not about whether or not it’s rational for him to still worry about this. It’s the same as Jon not always being able to trust his own thoughts or his hands. It’s a bit irrational, but not  _ wrong. _ And it’s a problem with an easy fix: a question asked and answered. 

“Very good,” he says, and Martin smiles and goes back in for another kiss. His little moment of worry soothed just like that. Things are so much better when they just tell each other what's wrong, when they ask for help or advice or reassurance. 

Jon wishes he could stop paying attention to what his hands are doing and just focus on enjoying this. He wishes, suddenly and out of nowhere, that Martin would take care of it for him. That he’d wrap his broad fingers around Jon’s slim wrists and just hold them down for him, where Jon won’t have to worry about them doing anything bad at all. And then he could just think about nothing but this: these sweet, light kisses in between murmured words of affection, firmly held down safe and secure. 

Jon makes a  _ noise  _ into the kiss which startles Martin badly enough into stopping for a moment. Jon doesn’t often make much of any noise at all. 

“Are you okay?” Martin asks, blinking wide eyes down at him. 

“Yea-- yes, I’m fine, perfectly fine,” he says, feeling his face go hot as Martin looks at him. He can’t believe that he’d just  _ thought _ that. 

After a moment, Martin smiles, crooked and shy and yet smugly pleased.  _ “Perfectly _ fine, huh?” 

“Oh, shut it,” Jon huffs, retreating to more comfortable ground. 

Martin hums, and then goes back to work. Jon tries not to make any more embarrassing noises, pay attention to his hands, and to avoid imagining being held down, safe and harmless. Or even worse: rope snaking around his wrists tight and secure, so it doesn’t matter if it slips either of their minds for even a moment. 

He at least doesn’t forget his hands. 

“Do you still have that rope?” Jon asks him one day, out of goddamned nowhere. 

“What?” Martin asks, in the middle of washing dishes from dinner. 

He’s used to eating quick and easy cheap meals. It’s hard to work up the effort to make something proper when it’s just you eating. That’s changed, now that he’s eating about half of his meals with Jon. He can’t say that it’s his favorite part about dating Jon, not when there’s a hundred other precious things about it, but-- it’s definitely a part that he likes a lot. Having a warm, filling meal with someone several times a week, it’s really good. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it. Even before his mum had to go and live in a care home, things had gotten to a point years ago that he fed her first, and then he went downstairs to eat his own meal alone. 

“The rope that you used to-- the-- the red rope. You said that you’d get rid of it. Have you?” 

That had been weeks ago. They hadn’t been talking about anything vaguely related to it a moment ago, instead bouncing theories and questions about a statement that Jon’s been looking into for the past week back and forth. There’d just been a brief lull in the conversation, but instead of returning to it, they’re talking about  _ this _ now, apparently. Has it been on Jon’s mind? All of this time? 

Martin doesn’t like the idea of that. 

“I’ve gotten rid of it,” he reassures. He’d put it in his messenger bag and had given it back to Tim at work while Jon was safely ensconced in his office and Sasha was off fetching some files from the shelves in the back, flushed and embarrassed both by how long it had taken him to get it back to him and by that he’d even borrowed in the first place, and for what purpose. It felt like an illicit drug deal, except over something deeply embarrassing instead. Tim had smiled and thanked him like Martin was just returning some tupperware. And that had been that. 

Except not, because now Jon’s asking about it, like it’s been lingering in his mind, bothering him. Should Martin have let him know that it’d been taken care of? He’d thought that it would be for the best if he just never mentioned it again, like the rope had simply been dropped out of existence itself, and there was absolutely no reason for Jon to ever think or worry about it again. Well, he knows now. That should help, right? 

“Oh,” Jon says. He frowns. “How  _ thoroughly _ have you gotten rid of it?” 

“Very,” he lies, which he feels sort of bad about, but. It’s  _ Tim’s  _ rope. Can he really just tell Jon that Tim does that sort of thing? Well, now that he thinks about it like that, he doesn’t really think that Tim would particularly mind. But still, he can hardly demand that Tim throw it out into the rubbish just because Martin was dumb enough to use it like that. It had felt like high quality stuff. Expensive, probably. He has no idea how much good rope costs, but he’s willing to bet that it’s a surprisingly high number. 

“I see,” he says, and he sounds… not as satisfied or reassured as Martin would’ve hoped. He almost sounds  _ disappointed.  _

“Is everything alright?” he asks, concerned. “Are you-- Jon, is something bothering you? Is there anything I can do to help?” 

“I’m not bothered,” he says immediately, his brow furrowed in that way he does when he’s bothered. 

“Right,” he says, trying to project how unconvinced he is with just a single word. 

“I just-- I’m simply thinking about something. It’s not  _ upsetting, _ just-- I’m puzzling something out.” 

“And… that has something to do with the-- the rope?” he asks cautiously. He takes his hands out of the sink and dries them with a rag even though he’s not done washing the dishes yet, and he approaches Jon’s place on the couch slowly, carefully, the way he would when he’s trying not to startle a wary stray cat. He doesn’t want to spook him out of his emotional honesty. It’s not that Jon lies about how he feels, exactly, but he needs a bit of coaxing to get it out properly into words sometimes. 

Jon works his jaw for a moment, clearly struggling to articulate what he’s wrestling with. Martin sits down on the couch and gives him a long moment to try and find the right way to say it. 

“I want to know what part of the things I thought and did were  _ me,  _ and which were just the curse,” Jon finally says. “It’s easy to see the differences in hindsight most of the time, but sometimes it’s-- it’s harder. The lines… blur, I think.” 

“Okay,” Martin says slowly, cautiously. It’s been a while since they’ve really talked about the curse. It comes up less and less often as time passes. By this point, they’ve spent far more time together uncursed and in love than they have otherwise. But if there’s still some things that Jon needs to process and talk about, then Martin’s here for him. “And you think the lines might’ve gotten blurred a bit with the rope?” 

“I would like to,” Jon says, and then stops to clear his throat. He’s twisting his hands together in his lap like he’s trying to keep them still but just can’t help fidgeting. Martin gives him a moment, but Jon doesn’t speak up again, so he has to prompt him. 

“You’d like to what?” he asks him. 

“What-if-you-tied-me-up-again?” he gets out all in a rush. 

Martin blinks. He can’t have heard that right. “Sorry?” 

Jon had been awkwardly staring out into the middle distance for the last few minutes, but now he turns his intense gaze on Martin. He straightens where he sits, not crumpling down with the weight of what he’s trying to force himself to say any longer. 

“I-- I think I’d like it if you tied me up again,” he says very firmly, despite some stammering. “I want to check and see what it feels like now that I’m myself. Compare and contrast.” 

Martin feels his fingers dig into the couch cushions at his sides in something almost like a terror reflex. 

“You want for me to _ what? _ No!” 

Unfortunately, he can see a familiar stubborn expression settling in on Jon’s features. 

“You haven’t even considered it,” he says. 

“I don’t need to consider it! It’s-- that’s a  _ terrible _ idea, Jon! I’m not going to tie you up for an experiment!” 

“Why not? It’s harmless.” 

“It is not! It was-- it was really upsetting last time, in case you don’t remember.” 

“Sure, but that was because you couldn’t just untie me when I wanted out. You can do that now. If I don’t like it, I’ll simply let you know and you can undo my bonds immediately.” 

“I-- that’s not--” he stammers, fumbling for the right words to let Jon know just how awful he can  _ feel  _ that this idea is. Unfortunately, it seems like they’re arguing with logic, and somehow that means that Jon has the advantage right now. “It’s a bad idea.” 

“Why is it a bad idea?” Jon challenges him. 

“It just is!” 

Jon frowns at him like he’s a puzzle to be solved. Then he crosses his arms, closes his eyes, and sighs. Stays like that for a moment. Opens his eyes. 

“I’m making tea,” he says. 

“Pardon?” Martin tries to follow the sudden swerve the conversation has taken. 

Jon stands up and walks towards the kitchen. “You always make yourself some tea when you’re upset. I’ll make some, and it will help,” he says decisively, firmly. 

It’s the  _ process _ of making the tea that helps Martin calm down when he’s stressed, instead of just the tea itself. But for some reason, he doesn’t say that. He can’t really remember the last time anyone made  _ him _ tea. 

“I-- okay,” he says dumbly, and then he watches as Jon makes him tea. He oversteeps it. He puts sugar and milk in it the way Jon likes it (very sweet and mild) and not the way Martin likes it (just a little dash of each). Martin watches him perform each step slightly wrong with sure and confident movements and doesn’t say anything to stop him. It would feel like criticizing someone for not being as efficient as possible while they’re trying to be nice to him. 

Jon puts a cup of overly bitter, overly sweet tea into Martin’s hand with a satisfied look in his eyes. “There,” he says with finality, nodding. “Drink that.” 

“Who am I to say no to an offer like that?” he asks. Despite the sarcasm, he immediately drinks. He was right. It tastes bad. If he’d made this himself he’d shake his head with disgust at a job badly done at himself and then pour it down the sink and try again. 

He drinks the whole cup. 

“Are you feeling better now?” Jon asks him expectantly. 

“Yeah,” Martin says, and realizes only a moment after he says it that it isn’t, in fact, a lie. He does feel kind of better. 

It’s hard to stay panicked and upset when Jon’s being so damned charming. 

“Good,” Jon says, clearly proudly satisfied that his tea plan has worked. He takes Martin’s arm and pulls him back onto the couch with him. “Alright, so let's go over this again. Why do you think it’s a bad idea for us to try bondage? We’re both adults, we’re not going to do anything either of us don’t want to. If it happens accidentally, we’ll just stop.” 

The little break has helped Martin reset a bit, but Jon’s clearly set on this like a dog with a bone. He can’t even wait for Martin’s answer before he’s shooting off preemptive counter arguments. Martin chews over what it is exactly that he wants to say for a moment, instead of what Jon  _ thinks _ he’s going to say. 

“It’s just--” he says, not knowing how his sentence is going to end when he starts it, which almost never ends well for him. “I-- it was the worst thing I did to you, wasn’t it?” 

Jon blinks, clearly taken aback for a moment. 

“Was it?” he asks. 

“It-- it is!” he says, caught off guard by Jon’s surprise. “I was trying my best during that whole period to do right by you but-- but I think that was my biggest fumble, really.” 

_ Fumble, _ like he’d just dropped a ball during PE because of sweaty palms or something. He grimaces. 

“Hm,” Jon says. “I suppose so? I hadn’t really thought of it that way. It was certainly upsetting, but when you look at it on the grand scale of things, it wasn’t particularly traumatizing or scarring. At worst I had some slightly chafed wrists at the end of it, and I was barely even thinking about it a few days later.” 

“You got uncursed a few days later,” he says blankly, too distracted with processing the fact that Jon apparently hasn’t placed nearly as much emotional weight on the event as he has to inject any emotion into his voice. 

“Yes, that was quite distracting, that’s true. Martin, it really isn’t that big of a deal.” 

“I-- I kept you tied up while you were crying and telling me to let you go! I left you alone!” 

“I was very upset at the time, yes. I didn’t really see the logic of why you were doing what you were doing, and that distressed me greatly. But now that I’m of sound mind, I want to see if I’ll react.. differently.” 

“Jon,” he says and, embarrassingly, his voice breaks. Jon stills at the sound of it. He’d looked very intent before, very keen and driven, but in a way like he wasn’t really paying much attention to Martin himself. He looks like he’s paying attention now. “I should’ve  _ never  _ done that.” 

“Oh, well,” Jon says, looking a bit panicked and remorseful now. He reaches out and takes Martin’s hands in his as if almost on instinct. “It-- alright, yes, it was bad, I admit it. But you have to realize that it wasn’t  _ that _ bad, Martin. Before I realized that you were lying to me, before you left, I was actually very-- it was nice? It’s strange how being tied up can feel nice, I’ve never really  _ quite  _ understood why people do that sort of thing, it seems terribly inconvenient and like a bit of a hassle really-- that is to say, I wasn’t really in my right mind at the time and I want to do it again so that I can pay attention to _ why _ it feels nice. If it still feels nice.” 

Martin swallows thickly, feeling Jon’s hands curled tight around his, one thumb rubbing in hurried circles on the back of his hand that are trying to be soothing, hearing the quick, anxious cadence of his voice as he tries to explain himself, to find the right words to comfort Martin. If Martin keeps this up, he might eventually spring up to try and brew him a second terrible cup of tea. He takes a deep breath, gathering himself. 

“You… you think it’ll feel good?” he asks him cautiously. 

After a moment, Jon nods. 

“I believe so,” he says. “I’ve gone over that memory a lot lately, and while I know that some part of it must of course be tied up with the fact that some part of you probably wanted for me to enjoy being tied up by you, I think it… it feels like more than that. I think. I would very much like to confirm or disprove it in any case, because I’m having trouble just letting it go without a proper answer. As must be obvious to you by now.” He says this last bit with a little self deprecating laugh. 

Tentatively, Martin gives him an answering crooked grin. 

Jon thinks that he might actually enjoy it.  _ That’s _ why he wants to try it out. That’s… way better than where Martin’s mind had immediately gone. That Jon wanted to put himself in an upsetting situation on purpose just to figure something out. Jon doesn’t take care of himself, sometimes. Overworks himself, doesn’t get enough sleep, skips meals. He could absolutely see him doing something like this. 

It feels a _ lot  _ better that Jon wants to do it because he thinks that it could feel  _ nice,  _ actually, wow. He gives a little watery laugh himself, feeling some of the tension slip out of his shoulders. 

“Do you want to try it out?” Jon asks him. 

Martin considers it for a long moment, while Jon clearly tries not to vibrate out of his seat with anticipation. 

“I’ll think about it,” is what he finally says. 

Jon deflates. 

“No, really, I’ll actually think about it,” he assures him. 

“Oh!” Jon says, not looking quite as disappointed any longer. He looks more like a dog being sternly told to  _ stay _ while there’s a treat balanced on his nose, or a wary kitten that he wants to befriend just on the other side of the room. Like he’s just barely holding himself back from pressing the advantage, from further pushing. 

Martin really can’t help his fond smile at that. He  _ does _ appreciate Jon’s restraint, as much as he’s obviously struggling with it. It’s sweet. 

“Do you want to watch that new documentary?” he says, in a bid to distract him. 

“Did you know that documentaries aren’t legally required to tell the truth?” Jon immediately says, taking the bait Martin neatly set out for him. 

Three days later, after Martin’s succeeded in convincing Jon to play a silly board game with him (he’s never really had the chance to play board games with anyone before, so he’s always wanted to do it at least once, even if it’s childish) and after he’s subsequently learned just how deep that competitive streak of his runs, Jon straightens up in his chair mid round, as if suddenly remembering something. 

“I’ve got to-- hang on--” he says, and gets out of his chair, out of the room. 

“Does this mean that you forfeit the game?” Martin calls out after him. 

“No!” Jon shouts back. “It’s just on pause!” 

“Alright!” he replies, and then promptly takes a good look at Jon’s cards while he’s gone. If he doesn’t want for Martin to cheat, he shouldn’t make it so easy for him, obviously. 

By the time Jon gets back, Jon’s cards are laying face down in the exact position they were left in. Martin’s pretty pleased with himself, until Jon smacks down what he’s holding into the table. His eyes just about bug out of his head at the sight. 

It’s rope. Black, thick, neatly tied up into a tidy little bundle. 

“I bought this yesterday,” Jon says. “Just-- I know that you haven’t decided yet, but  _ if  _ you decide to do it, then this is the rope we’ll be using. So, I thought that you should get to see it.” 

“Uh huh,” he says, unable to tear his eyes away from the thing. 

“Do you want to hold it?” Jon prompts him. “Feel the texture?” 

“I, um, sure?” 

Jon takes the rope and puts it in Martin’s hand for him. Martin gets a weird little flash of another scenario, something he saw on some sitcom once. The husband wanted a dog, the wife didn’t. The husband managed to wheedle a maybe out of her, and then the next day he introduced her to a shelter dog that he was just  _ borrowing.  _ Saying no to a hypothetical dog is easy. Saying no to a dog that you’ve petted and cooed at as it’s wagged its tail at you? Not so much. They got the dog. 

Martin looks away from the rope towards Jon, who’s looking very intently at him, as if avidly trying to read his reaction. 

He can’t help but snort at the sight of it. Jon looks confused for a moment, and then a touch affronted. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Nothing!” Martin defends himself. “I just-- I compared this whole entire weird situation in my head to you trying to convince me to get a  _ dog.”  _

“If I were to try and convince you to get anything, it would be a cat,” Jon says, as if that’s the issue here. Martin grins at him, helplessly fond. 

“I like cats too,” he says warmly. Idly, he runs his thumb up and down the rope in his hand. Good texture. Soft, and yet really sturdy. 

That’s _ their _ rope. Not borrowed, not someone else’s. They own it. 

… Why is that thought so pleasing? 

Clearing his throat, he puts the rope back down. He can feel himself flushing. 

“To be clear, I still don’t want sex,” Jon says. 

He barks a surprised laugh at that. “I didn’t think you did! But that’s good to know.” 

Jon nods with satisfaction, and they go back to the board game. Despite having had a good peek at Jon’s cards, Martin loses. The rope still lying on the table is  _ very  _ distracting. 

Martin wakes up in the pitch black as cold air brushes against his skin. He makes a faint noise of protest, complaint. 

“Sorry,” Jon whispers, arranging the blankets over Martin so that the little pocket of warmth that they’d made together doesn’t keep slipping out. “Just going to the restroom.” 

“Mnh,” he says, and listens to the soft sound of Jon’s footsteps disappearing. He tries to slip back into sleep, but he can’t quite manage it. His arms feel empty without something vaguely Jon shaped to hold. They aren’t even living together, they just stay over with each other often enough that things have already gotten to this point. 

He hugs his pillow, but it’s an ineffectual replacement. He lies there and waits for Jon to get back. Faintly, he hears the toilet flush, the sink running. Approaching footsteps. By the time the bedroom floorboards are creaking with his arrival, Martin is holding the duvet up for him to sneak himself back to his rightful place, even if it does let cold air back in. Jon makes a quiet, grateful noise and insinuates himself against Martin’s side, draping partially over his chest, tossing his leg over his hip. Martin lets the duvet fall back over him, and holds him, letting go of the pillow. Jon gives a contented sigh that makes Martin feel absurdly accomplished. That’s much better. 

Jon nuzzles up against him like a pleased cat, warm and soft and relaxed, his limbs limp and heavy with the sleep that’s going to wash back over him like the tide in a few minutes. Martin’s struck a bit breathless in that moment by how  _ comfortable _ Jon is around him. How obviously trusting. 

The room is dark and quiet, small and closed and private, a warm nest just for the two of them. With no warning, he says in a low hushed tone like he’s trying to avoid drawing the ire of a nearby librarian, “Aren’t you afraid that I might take advantage?” 

Jon doesn’t respond for a moment. Maybe he’s already asleep. Martin hopes so. What a _ stupid _ question. Of course Jon isn’t afraid of that, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked for him to do something like-- 

“Not even remotely,” Jon says. He says it very certainly, and yet softly, like it’s a permanent fact of existence that he doesn’t have to get worked up about defending, because that won’t change that it’s true. Nothing could. 

He’d known what Martin was talking about right away, no explanation needed. That’s fair. Martin hasn’t really been able to think about anything else since Jon first brought the whole thing up a little while ago. He wouldn’t be surprised to find out if Jon’s the same way right now. 

Jon runs one hand up and down Martin’s chest once, a fond gesture. 

“You’ve more than proven that you’d never,” he goes on, his voice deep and quiet with the lingering traces of sleep running through it. “No matter how easy or convenient it would be.” 

Martin had told himself, scolded himself, that of course the answer would be no. Of course Jon isn’t afraid of that. They’ve been over this before. 

Still, he’s so deeply, genuinely happy to hear him say it. Happy and flattered and flustered, as if not taking advantage of his boyfriend is some sort of great, kind thing he’s doing. Ridiculous. He’s being ridiculous. 

He presses a kiss to the top of Jon’s head, and falls asleep. 

Jon had left the rope he’d bought behind in Martin’s flat, like an unsubtle hint. It’s the sort of clumsy attempt at manipulation that Martin is beginning to expect from Jon whenever he’s trying to be coy about something. 

Martin puts it in a drawer and tries and fails to put it out of his mind. Sure, he’s  _ considering _ the whole bondage thing but that doesn’t mean that he should spend the entire time being haunted by the rope’s presence like a telltale heart underneath the floorboards either. 

He could just ‘remind’ Jon that he’d forgotten it here though. Make him take it with him back to his own flat and be rid of it. And yet he hasn’t. He hasn’t said anything at all. 

He ignores it completely for two days. 

On the third day, he takes it out of the drawer and just holds it, feeling the texture of it, the heft. He thinks about how Jon would look in it, tied up snug and helpless, and then he has to put it back in the drawer, feeling hot and guilty and panicked for no good reason for the rest of the day. 

Then two days later he takes it out and uses it to practice knots while he watches how-to videos on Youtube. 

Considering. He’s  _ just  _ considering it. That’s all. 

“Let’s do it,” Martin says all in a rush one day, as soon as they’ve entered Jon’s flat. 

“Do what?” Jon asks automatically, but by the time he’s done asking the question, he already knows. There’s only one _ it _ right now, between the two of them. 

Martin’s face flushes bright red, but he reaches inside his jacket and takes it out. The bundle of rope that Jon had left behind in his flat weeks ago. He’d kept it after all. Some part of him had wondered if he’d maybe just thrown it out. 

“This,” Martin says, sounding only a little bit strangled as he does so. 

“Ah,” Jon says, and he feels a prickling heat wash across his own face. He suddenly feels very, very awake and aware of his own body. “I see.” 

“Is that all right?” Martin asks. “It’s-- it’s okay if you’ve changed your mind!” 

“No!” Jon bursts out. “I mean, no, no I haven’t changed my mind. I would still like to, ah, attempt to-- to, yes. Yes.” 

He grips the strap of his messenger bag tightly, thrilling with gleeful excitement that Martin had actually _ agreed,  _ that he wants to-- and a surprising amount of nerves as well. It mixes in a strange way in his stomach, nerve wracking and delighted all at the same time. 

And then he remembers himself, that they’re just standing in his entry way. He drops his bag to the floor and shucks his jacket and shoes off, far more messy than he’d normally be when he isn’t even sleep deprived. 

“Let’s get to it, then,” he says. 

“I-- now!?” 

“Yes? You said that you wanted to?” 

“I-- I said that I wanted to, yeah, but like-- _ right now?  _ Immediately?” 

“What, do you want to circle a day on the calendar instead?” 

“Maybe?” Martin asks, clutching the rope to his chest, looking like Jon has announced that he should go and pack his bags because they’re going to move to Australia right this instant, the cab is waiting outside. 

Jon, who has been waiting and hoping for Martin to agree to this for  _ weeks  _ now, and been wanting and thinking about it for even longer, doesn’t want to delay for even a moment longer. He’s fairly certain that he might go mad with impatience if he tried it. 

… He probably shouldn’t be rushing Martin onwards if he’s tentative, though. As much as he might feel the urge to do so. 

“Alright,” Jon makes himself say, trying not to sound too pained as he does so. “Which day? Tomorrow, perhaps?” 

Martin snorts a little laugh at that, the tension that was hanging about him just a moment before breaking as Jon doesn’t insist that no, they should do this _ now.  _

“You don’t want to waste any more time, huh?” 

Jon feels himself soften at the teasing question. “I simply know that if we schedule it too far off that I will be  _ very _ distracted until it happens.” 

“That’s fair. That’s very fair, actually, now that I think about it. Wow, I would be  _ wreck _ if we did that.” 

“So you agree that the sooner we do it, the less time there is for us to be nervous about it,” Jon can’t help but say. 

“Afraid I’m going to get cold feet?” Martin asks playfully. 

\--Oh, he hadn’t even  _ considered _ that. That Martin might change his mind if given the time to doubt himself. He very much hopes that that won’t happen, but… 

“You’re allowed to change your mind at any point, of course. I reserve the right to do so myself.” 

Martin gives him a fond, soft smile at that. “Yeah. ‘Course.” 

“Well, then,” Jon says after a beat. “Tomorrow?” 

Martin nods once, decisively. “Tomorrow.” 

Martin should’ve just followed Jon’s lead and done-- done _ it  _ the very day he’d agreed to it, right then and there. This is what he thinks as he feels his stomach tie itself into anxious knots in the middle of the night, too nervous to fall asleep despite the fact that he went to bed hours ago. 

He’d managed to talk himself into saying yes today (or does it count as yesterday yet? It is after midnight by now) by telling himself that clearly he wasn’t ever going to be able to stop thinking about it until he actually gave it a go. He’d comforted himself by reasoning out all of the most likely outcomes: Jon doesn’t enjoy himself and tells Martin to untie him in under five minutes, and is mildly disappointed and annoyed for an afternoon. Jon isn’t particularly upset  _ or _ intrigued, and tells Martin to untie him eventually out of boredom, but with a finally satisfied curiosity. 

He couldn’t really bring himself to picture the possibility of Jon actually outright  _ enjoying  _ himself. He doesn’t know what that looks like, he doesn’t want to get his hopes up, the imaginings blur together with unrealistic fantasies of Jon enjoying it in ways that he very much doesn’t enjoy anything, ever. 

But now that he’s said yes, now that this happening has been turned into  _ reality,  _ an expectation instead of a possibility, he can’t help but consider all of the  _ worst  _ possible outcomes. Sure, the most likely outcomes are the most likely outcomes. But the worst ones might come true as well. They often do, don’t they? 

Some of the worst possible outcomes: 

Martin ties Jon up, and Jon gets upset. Really, really upset. He cries. Because of what  _ Martin  _ did to him. 

Martin ties Jon up, and he does something wrong. A tangled knot, too tight, can’t manage to undo it on his own. The tips of Jon’s fingers go pale and numb. Jon gets  _ hurt, _ because of Martin. 

Martin ties Jon up, and Jon wants for it to stop. And Martin doesn’t listen to him. He doesn’t  _ have _ to. If Jon wants to be untied, there’s nothing he can do about it but ask Martin and hope that he does as he said he would. If Martin wants to keep Jon tied up for as long as he wants, what Jon wants disregarded, then he can make that happen very, very easily. 

\--That last one is the worst one, he thinks. The most nauseating one, the one he can’t stop thinking about. It’s also the most unrealistic one. Why would he ever  _ do _ that? He can’t even think about it without getting upset. It makes no sense. When he imagines it, he can’t wrap his head around what his motivation is supposed to be, this future cruel Martin. The inside of his head, his thoughts and his feelings, aren’t there. Impenetrable. 

And that’s because there just isn’t any thought or feeling that he could have that would make him do anything like that. Not tomorrow (today) and not in ten years or a lifetime either. It’s a stupid, unrealistic fear that isn’t going to happen. It’s just a-- a sickening little nightmare scenario. It’s not real. It’s not going to happen. It never possibly could. 

Except for that one time that it did. With the red rope. 

“That was different,” he mumbles to himself in the dark of his bedroom at something like one in the morning. He’s not going to wake Jon by talking to himself; they had decided, without either of them talking about it, that they were going to go and sleep in their own separate flats tonight. 

_ Excuses, _ Martin’s mind immediately snaps back disdainfully. 

“It is not,” he says back, still quiet, like Jon is asleep next to him just like he is most nights now. Maybe it’s just a habit to try and be quiet and considerate during the night now, whenever he sneaks out of bed to go to the bathroom or get a snack because it turns out that he should’ve had a heftier supper after all and he can’t fall asleep with such an empty stomach. 

That voice inside of himself doesn’t respond, but that’s because it doesn’t have to. 

“I’m gonna listen to him this time,” he goes on, a bit firmer this time. “This time it’s-- it’s not just a trap. We’re doing it together. If he wants out, he gets out. That’s all there is to it. You’ll see.” 

By the time he’s done with the proclamation, he’s woken himself up enough for him to feel a bit self conscious about arguing with himself aloud like this. 

It is a proclamation though. A promise. He  _ is _ going to do this, no matter how many worst possible outcomes his brain decides to cook up. He has to. He wants to, at least mostly. At this point, he just needs to prove it to himself. That this time, when Jon says no, he’s going to listen. He will. 

It takes Martin a long time to fall asleep. 

“Candles, yes or no?” is the first thing Jon says when Martin gets to his flat, Saturday morning. 

“What?” he asks, blinking, already feeling a step behind in the conversation. He looks at Jon. Jon himself is wide eyed and straight backed, looking wide awake and alert but… in a very manic, intense sort of way, like he’s riding that second wave of energy you get if you stay up long enough past your sleep deprivation. 

Maybe Martin isn’t the only one who slept poorly last night. 

“Should I light candles or not, during this? I hadn’t considered doing it at first, I don’t really see the point, it’s an unnecessary fire risk, but it occurred to me that you might like it while I was thinking about it after you left. It’s supposed to be romantic, isn’t it? I don’t have any scented candles but I do have some normal ones for in case of a power outage, even though I also have a regular torch-- would you like candles, Martin? Or would it make the lighting too dark, do you think--” 

Martin puts a hand up, trying to stem the slightly overwhelming rush of words. He gets the feeling that Jon has been considering this a  _ lot _ since the last time he saw him. 

“I don’t need candles,” he says. “It’s-- it’s sweet that you thought of it, though.” 

“No candles,” Jon says, nodding firmly. “Alright. And what about music?” 

“Music?” 

“Would you like some background noise? I’ve been doing some research and some people like that, apparently. If you want music, what type would you like?” 

“I don’t-- Jon, did you _ sleep?”  _

“I have had enough sleep,” Jon says, which honestly isn’t particularly reassuring. Jon once told him that he considered four hours of sleep to be, while not  _ comfortable,  _ adequate. 

He strongly considers putting this whole thing off for another day, looks at how intense Jon is, and reconsiders. If he does put it off for longer, there’s a very real possibility that Jon might physically, literally explode from a mixture of sheer impatience and disappointment. He imagines that it’d be like spending an entire day psyching yourself up for something absolutely nerve wracking, like a huge test or a bungee jumping session or your own wedding, and then it gets pushed back at the last minute, and you know that you’re just going to have to do all of that psyching up a second time. 

Maybe it would be reassuring if at least one of them were calm and confident about what’s about to happen, but honestly, Martin sort of likes that they both seem to be equally nervous about this to some degree. It makes him feel less… silly, for worrying. 

“I don’t need music,” he says. “And I don’t need candles. Do you want music or candles?” 

“Well, not particularly, no,” Jon says. “I was just wondering if you did. You seemed a bit-- that is, I realize that I’ve talked you into doing this, and of course you’re welcome to say no at any time and we aren’t going to do anything that you don’t agree to, but-- I just, I wanted to try and see if I could find a way to make this all more-- more, ah,  _ enjoyable _ for you.” 

Martin takes a moment to try and figure out what exactly Jon is trying to say, and he realizes that at no point has he actually said out loud that tying Jon up is something that he  _ wants, _ in a nerve wracking guilty sort of way. He probably wouldn’t be even half as torn up about all of this as he is if he  _ didn’t _ want it. But he does. He wants it a lot, to a degree that worries him. He wants this. 

“Oh, Jon,” he says, feeling himself soften with realization and fondness. “It’s okay, that’s not-- I’m not gritting my teeth through this. I mean, you-- you  _ wanted _ that sort of thing while you were cursed for a reason.” 

“Yes,” Jon says, “but that was then. Things could have changed since then. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience for you, was it?” 

“No,” he says. Jon is always so honest, it makes Martin want to return the favor. He’s learned to be a good liar, an excellent liar. Jon trusts him, despite everything. It would be so easy to say something comforting instead. He bets that he could get Jon to believe it. But he doesn’t want to lie to Jon, especially not when they’re talking about something he clearly cares about so much. He just doesn’t. “But that’s not… even though it was-- wasn’t, um, a  _ pleasant experience… _ I still like that sort of thing. Sorry.” 

He knows that Jon doesn’t want for him to apologize for every little thing, he’s  _ told  _ him so, but it just slips out. It just-- it feels like something he should apologize for. That that whole day didn’t even put a  _ dent _ in his stupid, weird fetish for restraining Jon, turning him immobilized and helpless at his hands. If he was a better person, if that whole fuck up had made more of an impression on him, then it would’ve stuck with him. It would’ve changed him. He wouldn’t like that sort of thing any longer. Or at least, that’s how it feels. 

“I don’t see why you should apologize for that,” Jon says. “That’s quite fortunate in fact, considering what we’re about to do.” 

“Um,” Martin says. He’s not sure if him being inevitably  _ turned on _ by Jon’s experiment is a good thing at all, considering the fact that any kind of below the belt touching is a  _ firm  _ no. “Sure.” 

“Come on,” Jon says, taking Martin’s hand. He pulls him towards his bedroom and Martin follows, helpless. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to just do this on the couch?” he asks, shooting for casual and missing by about a mile. 

“The bed is more comfortable,” Jon replies immediately, apparently not even noticing the way that Martin’s voice has climbed by at least one octave. 

“Right,” Martin says, dry mouthed. “Right, that makes sense.” 

What’s wrong with him? They’re not going to  _ do _ anything, absolutely not. Whether they do this whole thing in the bed or on the couch makes  _ no _ difference. At all. 

_ But the bed is more intimate, _ some stupid, romantic part of Martin twitters, as if there’s anything remotely romantic about  _ bondage.  _

Jon leaves the lights on, the curtains drawn open. Why wouldn’t he? No one who might be walking down the street below could possibly see them up here, not unless they were pressed right up against the window pane. Not unless there’s a peeping tom with binoculars crouched on the roof of the opposite apartment building looking specifically at them. 

Martin can’t help but check, and he feels incredibly stupid the whole time he does it. The coast is clear. Jon, meanwhile, opens the drawer of his nightstand, which is apparently where he’s been storing the rope since yesterday. Right next to his bed while he slept last night, as close to him as possible. Some distant, feverish part of Martin wonders if he’d taken it out of the drawer during the night, just to hold it, to feel it and try and picture just how it would feel to be bound by it the next day. 

The thought of Jon feeling anticipation, maybe even  _ excitement, _ for what they’re about to do-- it  _ does _ things to Martin. He takes a deep slow breath, trying to force himself to calm down. Remember the most likely scenarios. Jon gets bored, calls it off. Jon doesn’t like it, calls it off. See, that’s nothing to get all riled up about. Deep breaths. Calm down. It’s okay. It’s nothing. He’s twisting himself into a nervous pretzel over nothing, his anxiety making it all feel so terribly dire and high stakes. But it’s not. It’s not. He has to remember that. 

“Martin?” Jon asks, and Martin snaps back to the present moment, properly looking at him. Jon is sitting in the middle of his bed, his legs tucked up underneath him, barefoot. 

Martin blinks as it finally registers. 

“Hey,” he says, in the shocked, indignant tones of a man who’s just realized that he helped a robber carry his television down the stairs and didn’t notice until he was already driving away. “You’re wearing my sweater.” 

He is. The one that Martin had lent to him after he’d accidentally spilled flour all over the one Jon had already been wearing. He hadn’t even noticed until now that Jon hasn’t actually returned it yet. That was  _ weeks  _ ago. 

Surprise flickers across Jon’s face, quickly followed by shifty defensiveness. 

“You-- you gave it to me,” he says, flustered. One of his hands comes up to clutch at the collar, like he’s suddenly afraid that Martin might try to pull it up off his head to reclaim it. 

“I  _ lent _ it to you,” Martin says. 

“Well,” says Jon, “you didn’t specify for how long I could borrow it, so I haven’t technically broken any sort of deal between us.” 

“It was _ implied _ that you’d give it back after you got back to your own wardrobe!” 

“You didn’t ask for it back the next time you saw me,” Jon immediately responds, like it’s some sort of gotcha. 

“That’s-- you-- I just forgot!” 

“Well, so did I.” 

“You’re  _ wearing _ it!” 

“Martin, are you going to tie me up or not?” 

“You’re trying to distract me,” Martin accuses. 

“No, I’m simply trying to keep us on track,” he says piously. “You can get it back after we’re done, now that you’ve reminded me.” 

Martin snorts skeptically. Yeah, right. He’s clearly just banking on the fact that Martin won’t remember to ask for it back after everything. 

“Yeah, sure,” he says, deciding that he  _ will  _ remember to ask for it back after everything, and then Jon will have to swallow his own words when he’s forced to surrender the sweater to him. He gets on the bed and holds his hand out for the rope that Jon’s still holding. 

It’s only as he’s unwinding the cord that’s keeping it in a neat and tidy loop that he realizes that all of his nerves somehow managed to impossibly fizzle out for a minute there. He’s been feeling anxiety grow like a leaden rock in the pit of his stomach for over twenty four hours now, and then one little silly argument with Jon later it’s just… gone. At least for a moment. 

“Do you, um,” he says, the tension descending on him once again, as soon as he noticed its absence, “do you have any preferences? For how you want to be tied up?” 

Martin had done research before tonight. Different kinds of knots, positions. He’d maybe done  _ way more _ research than necessary, even. Every time he found a pretty new way to tie someone up he couldn’t help but imagine the model as Jon and-- and he’d had to take a lot of breaks during the whole thing, is his point. But now that he’s here, now that it’s really _ happening _ (oh god, it’s really happening), he suddenly can’t make himself choose. There’s too many options. He shouldn’t have let himself learn all of them, clearly. 

Jon takes a moment to consider this. 

“I suppose there’s no need to be too elaborate,” he finally says. “Wrists behind my back will serve perfectly well. Maybe tie my ankles up as well, if you feel the need.” 

“Okay,” he says, and has to take a moment to just breathe as his voice breaks. Wrists behind his back, ankles tied up. Simple. Plain. Nothing as incredibly intricate as he’d seen while he’d been ‘researching.’ Easy. He can’t possibly mess that up. It’s  _ easy.  _

It doesn’t feel easy. 

“Wrists behind your back, please,” he says, and Jon does as he asks, his wrists crossed over and overlapping each other at the small of his back. He has thin wrists, Martin thinks wildly as he starts winding rope around them in the proper pattern. He’s noticed that before, usually guiltily followed by the thought that they’d fit so neatly in his hands, he could hold them down so easily. He takes another deep breath. He can’t shake the feeling that he’s somehow not getting enough oxygen into his lungs. 

His hands follow the steps that he’d intently watched on videos, tightening the rope around Jon’s wrists and tying off the knot. Like he’s disarming a bomb, he holds his breath as he lets go of it, his hands drifting away. The knot holds. It doesn’t unwind and fall to pieces all at once, it doesn’t slip off. It stays where he put it. It looks just like the pictures he’d seen. A proper knot. 

“T-- try getting out of it?” Martin asks. 

He watches Jon’s wrists twist and his shoulders strain as he pulls against it. The rope holds, firm and unyielding. After a moment, Jon’s shoulders go slack as he gives up. 

“I can’t,” he says, his voice low. Martin shivers at those words. 

This is it, he realizes. It’s done. Jon is trapped. 

Martin has always been aware of his size, the way it makes him stand out above everyone else when he doesn’t want to, the way it lets him loom over people if he’s not paying attention. He always tries to pay attention. He doesn’t want to loom. He doesn’t want to make anyone nervous. He ducks his head and hunches his shoulders, trying to fit himself into a smaller space than his body wants him to occupy. He tries to be non threatening. He tries. He likes to think that he succeeds, most of the time. 

But the fact is that Martin could always, always overpower Jon. If he wanted to. He’s just… bigger than him. Taller, broader, heavier. Jon is only a little bit over five feet tall and looks like he periodically skips meals in favor of getting more work done. Martin could probably hold him down and do whatever he liked to him at any moment, rope or no rope, curse or no curse. But only probably. Maybe Jon would be able to wriggle out of his grip and run away. Maybe he could dodge his grab. Maybe he could get a lucky shot in on Martin’s eyes, his throat, his crotch. He’d have a  _ chance.  _

He doesn’t have a chance now, not a snowball’s chance in hell. He’s tied up. Utterly helpless to Martin’s selfish wants. There’s no way he could stop him. 

This is the point where Martin could expose his cruel ruse, that he’d just done and said whatever it took to get Jon into this position that he now can’t back out of now that it’s too late. Instead, he takes a deep breath in. Exhales, slowly. He feels his hands curled into tight fists on his thighs, not even touching Jon. 

See? He won’t violate Jon just because he has the opportunity, even the  _ perfect _ opportunity. That’s always been the case. 

He sits there for a long moment, trying to let that sink in. Something that he’s always known, but never really  _ felt.  _

Then he remembers that he’s not the only person in the room here,  _ he’s _ not the one who’s tied up. 

“Jon?” he asks, and shuffles around on the bed on his knees until he’s back in front of Jon again, can see his expression. He has a faint frown on his face, like he’s just taken a bite out of some new and strange food and he’s trying to decide if it tastes good or not. “How is it? Do you like it?” 

“It’s… relaxing,” he says slowly, as if he’s formulating his thoughts as he speaks. 

“Relaxing?” he asks. That’s not what he’d think being helpless at someone’s hands would feel like. 

Jon nods after a moment, more decisively. “Yes,” he says. “It’s relaxing. It’s like… like when you’re underneath a very heavy blanket, you know?” 

“No?” Martin says, confused. 

“Or when you accidentally roll over onto me when you’re asleep,” he goes on. 

“When I  _ what?” _ he asks, aghast. 

“Oh, don’t worry, I enjoy it very much. It’s… the pressure, it’s comforting somehow. It’s hard to explain.” 

“I… okay,” he says. He supposes that he’s just going to have to accept that he’s not going to be able to  _ get _ why Jon likes it. He just does. 

Jon likes it. A pleased, excited shiver runs down his spine at that, and he curls his hands up in the duvet underneath him to make sure that he’s keeping them to himself. Calm down. 

He sits there for a moment just watching Jon. A new uncertainty, one that he hadn’t even thought to worry about, fills him. 

“What… what do we do now?” Martin asks. 

“Hm?” Jon asks, blinking his eyes open. He’d let them close a few moments ago, as if just to take in the sensation of rope around his wrists and nothing else. Martin hasn’t tied up his ankles yet. He isn’t sure if he can bring himself to do it, to render Jon even more dependent on him in this moment. If he does, Martin might just forget how to breathe all together. 

“I… do you just want to sit there? I-- I’ve never done this before, but-- we should be doing something, right?” 

Doing something. All of his guilty fantasies, all of the videos that he’d hurriedly backed out from once he realized that they weren’t just for education, they all agree what that ‘something’ is. He should fuck Jon while he’s weak and vulnerable. Except he’s  _ not  _ going to do that, that’s not what Jon wants. But in the wake of that… he has no idea what the next step is, if it isn’t sex. He hopes Jon knows. 

Traitorously, his mind supplies: he looks beautiful like this. Unable to do anything but just sit there, incapable of getting free on his own. If he wants out, he’s going to have to ask Martin for help. He’s safe and trussed up in his bed right now, and Martin doesn’t have to share him with anyone at all. All his. Tied up by Martin’s hands, wearing Martin’s clothes. He’s wearing Martin’s clothes. His sweater. He’d mostly just been harmlessly annoyed earlier that Jon had stolen it from him without him even noticing, but-- but he looks so good in it, now that he’s really  _ seeing _ him. It’s Martin’s. It’s too big on him, soft and loose. Makes him look even smaller than he already is. That, combined with the rope-- Martin wants to never forget how he looks right now. How it’s making him feel.  _ Possessive, _ but in a pleased, delighted sort of way. He wants to take a picture. 

God, he should not take a picture. Unless he asks, and Jon says yes. No, that’s ridiculous, don’t even ask, what an  _ awful  _ idea--

“Doing something?” Jon asks. 

“So-- so we’re not just sitting here in silence,” he says, like it’s a joke, but it’s really not. If things continue like this, he feels like he’s going to lose his  _ mind, _ torn apart by his thoughts. He needs something to do that isn’t just sitting here and wanting. 

Jon tilts his head to the side in thought. “That’s… not a bad idea.” 

“We probably should’ve talked about this before I tied you up,” he says, and can’t help but laugh a little bit at himself, at both of them. God, they’ve both had all of the time in the world to painstakingly plan every single step, and yet they’ve barely done anything at all. Too nervous to properly think it through, he guesses. 

“Probably,” Jon agrees, with a slightly self deprecating smile. Martin relaxes at the sight of it. See, this is just something that they’re doing together. Just something that they’re figuring out together. “Do you have any thoughts?” 

“Every time I’ve thought about something like this, it involved a lot less clothes,” he says, and immediately bites his tongue in horror. “I-- I mean-- not that I thought-- I haven’t been  _ expecting _ anything like that!” 

“I know,” Jon says, visibly not disgusted or horrified by Martin’s admission. “Martin, it’s fine. Geor-- my last girlfriend, she thought about me that way as well, when she was taking care of herself. I’m fine with being  _ thought _ about, so long as you don’t expect for anything to actually happen.” 

“Right,” he says, his heart thumping double time, feeling he just exposed something terrible about himself and just barely got away with it. Except that’s not what happened. He just slipped up and said something stupid, something that he was a little bit ashamed of and never wanted to bother Jon with, and then Jon just… wasn’t bothered by it. Worrying over nothing. 

Martin does that pretty often, now that he thinks about it. 

“Well, my point was,” he says, forcing himself to go on instead of asking Jon if he’s  _ really sure _ that it’s actually fine, or to tell him more about this ex-girlfriend that he’s never heard of before and is abruptly worried might still be living within a hundred mile radius of Jon. “My point, um-- every time I’ve thought about doing something like this with you it’s been… unrealistic. After it started seeming like it was something that was actually going to happen, I was too worried about all of the ways it might go wrong to really consider it any further. So-- so, no, I don’t have any thoughts. Sorry.” 

Jon looks at him for a long moment, and Martin tries not to fidget, tries not to feel like he’s given the wrong answer on a test, is in trouble. 

“I’ve had thoughts,” Jon says, in that low voice. 

“Oh,” Martin says, stilling, the words striking him like a lightning bolt to the chest. Jon’s had  _ thoughts _ about what he might want to do if Martin tied him up. It almost doesn’t matter what those thoughts were, just that he’d had any at all. Jon’s been  _ wanting _ this. He shifts where he’s sitting on the bed, trying to ignore his hardening cock. “What-- what kind of thoughts?” 

“You kissing me,” Jon says, looking right at him. 

Martin takes a shuddering breath. 

“You want for me to kiss you while you’re tied up?” His voice almost comes out as a rasp. 

Jon nods. “I never… I never know what to do with my hands. I think that it would be very nice if I didn’t have to worry about them while you were kissing me. So I could just focus on you, and nothing else.” 

Martin can’t think of a single thing to say in response to that, so instead he just kisses him. 

At the start, Martin tried to keep track of how many times he kissed Jon, and where. Like a mental scrapbook of precious moments, wonderful gifts. Three times on his nose. Twice on the shell of his ear. Once on his left hand, pressed up against the knuckles. He’s long since lost count, though. It’s so hard to keep his mind on numbers while he’s got his mouth on Jon, and one kiss can quickly turn into ten if they’re both in the mood to just trade kisses over and over again, each one bleeding into the next, impossible to tell where one kiss starts and the next one begins. 

It’s only as he kisses Jon now that he notices it. All of those other times that he’d pressed Jon into the couch or held him close in bed or kissed him goodbye for so long that he missed his train home: Jon hadn’t been relaxed for those long, lingering kisses. He’d kissed back, he’d smiled, he’d _ liked  _ it, Martin’s certain of it. But he hadn’t been relaxed, and he can tell because Jon is relaxed  _ now. _ He melts into the kiss like he’s ice cream and Martin is the sun shining down on him. Like gravity is pushing him to lean into it, like there’s nothing else he could possibly do. Jon is tied up, and it’s making him feel  _ comfortable.  _

Martin keeps kissing Jon. Jon is enjoying it, and he doesn’t want to stop doing anything that makes Jon happy. Jon asked for it, and so Martin is giving it to him. Jon is entirely helpless to whatever Martin might want to do to him, and instead Martin is only doing what Jon asks for, what he wants. Every moment that he  _ can _ take advantage and doesn’t makes something inside of himself unwind just a bit more. Like he’s learning to trust himself. 

He kisses Jon until his lips almost feel sore, he holds him in his arms and Jon can’t hold him back, and he presses kiss after kiss onto his lips. By the end, he’s just brushing his lips lightly against Jon’s, nuzzling against his forehead and nose, feeling an energy buzzing hungrily underneath his skin. 

“Good?” he asks, parting from Jon only slightly, still holding him. His voice is gravely, like they’ve been doing something besides trading chaste kisses for who knows how long. They didn’t feel chaste. They felt  _ intense.  _

Jon blinks up at him slowly, like a cat saying  _ I love you. _ His pupils are blown out huge and dark. He smiles at Martin dazedly, his lips thoroughly kissed, looking like a sleepy, happy drunk. Intoxicated from Martin’s affections. 

“Good,” he repeats after Martin, and he  _ sounds _ drunk. Slow, groggy. 

That’s right. He hadn’t slept much last night. 

“Do you want to lie down?” Martin asks quietly, cupping Jon’s face, his thumb rubbing thoughtless, fond circles into his cheekbone. Jon leans into it without hesitation or embarrassment, and Martin has to catch his breath for a moment. 

Jon sighs blissfully, and nods into Martin’s hand. Martin helps lever him into lying down on the bed. He braces himself over him, caging him in, and he presses more kisses onto his face like a light rain, and every other allowed space that Jon had showed him, taught him how to touch and kiss properly. Jon is helpless. He can’t stop him. He doesn’t ask him to, either. 

Jon’s eyelids flutter shut, and Martin kisses those as well, light and grazing and careful. After a while, he settles down onto the bed next to Jon, pressed up warm and heavy against his side. He just holds him for a long moment. It’s amazing, how something so precious can fit so perfectly inside the circle of his arms. It doesn’t feel like it should be possible. 

“Still good?” he asks, the words muffled into the top of Jon’s head. 

Jon doesn’t answer. 

Worry niggles at Martin, and he sits up. 

“Jon?” he asks, and then he realizes that at some point, Jon had fallen asleep. He hadn’t even noticed. 

Martin had tied Jon up, and Jon had felt so comfortable and relaxed that he’d  _ fallen asleep,  _ even with rope around his wrists. Somehow, that is not one of the outcomes that he’d stopped to consider. 

There’s a stone lodged down in his throat, difficult to swallow past. Martin had been so worried about this. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about terrible what ifs. What if he messed up, what if he was cruel, what if he didn’t listen. He hadn’t been able to explain to himself how any of those things could possibly happen, and still he was scared. But Jon hadn’t been scared of that. He isn’t scared now. He  _ trusts _ him, trusts him so much that Martin almost can’t bear it. 

The thing is, Martin has read books and articles like Sasha recommended. Books about kinks, about bondage, about consent. About how it’s okay. He’d been mortified and self conscious at the start, and by the end just fascinated. The articles, they all made sense after a while. And Sasha’s a smart person, right? He doesn’t think that she’d be wrong about something so big. 

He told himself, Tim had given him that rope. That meant that Tim already owned it, used it. Tim did bondage too. As the one being tied up or doing the tying up, he doesn’t know. But he was doing it. And Tim’s a good person, isn’t he? Martin thinks so. So, being kinky doesn’t make you a bad person, clearly. Being kinky isn’t bad. It’s okay. 

Martin knows that Sasha’s right about how kink doesn’t make you into a bad person, and he knows that Tim does bondage and he knows that that’s okay, it doesn’t mean that he’s bad. He likes Tim and Sasha. They’re not wrong about this. 

And that means that the same thing has to apply to Martin, right? Martin isn’t bad just for being kinky, for wanting certain things. 

Martin has never known that he’s bad for being kinky. He  _ feels _ it. He’s always felt it, for almost as long as he can remember. It’s a persistent, unwavering, solid belief deep in the core of him where he can’t reach it or pull it out. Facts don’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he can look at Tim and know that he likes bondage and not feel disgust or horror or contempt, can accept that as something that’s perfectly fine. It’s bad if  _ Martin _ does it, if Martin wants it. That’s the part that’s bad. Him. 

Nothing has ever been able to change that, until now. 

He looks down at Jon, who looks so perfectly content and peaceful, relaxed and asleep, still tied up. Martin did that. He made that happen. He tied Jon up and made him vulnerable and helpless, and he didn’t take advantage, and he did what Jon asked for, and he made him feel so good that he fell asleep with a smile on his face. 

How could something that makes Jon so happy possibly be bad? It isn’t. That’s all there is to it. 

Martin lies back down, and holds Jon, breathes him and his trust in. He probably shouldn’t let Jon sleep while tied up, that could be dangerous. He’ll untie him. 

In just a moment. He looks so content right now that Martin just doesn’t have the heart to disturb him. Just one more moment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIN 
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone who commented on this fic as I was posting it. The comments on this fic were honestly an especial joy to read, no exageration. I was always eager to write and update this specific fic because I knew that the comments for it would be excellent and a blast to read. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank Aryashi specifically, who helped me with the initial brainstorming of the premise of this fic ages ago, pre-read the majority of the chapters and gave me advice and also just the confidence to post them in the first place, and also the encouragement and motivation from just talking about this fic a LOT with me. This fic started without a beta but I think I can pretty firmly say that it ended with one. This fic wouldn't exist without you.


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